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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
MRS.  VIRGINIA  B.  SPORER 


C0PYRlr,MT      1901, 


M.   WALTER    DUNNE. 
PUBLISHER 


SPECIAL  INTRODUCTION 


Writers  never  weary  themselves  in  sounding-  the  praise 
of  reading,  though  their  readers  sometimes  weary  of  the 
iteration.  And  truly  there  is  a  flat  monotone  in  this  sol- 
emn preaching  of  the  duty  of  persistence  in  « courses))  of 
book-study.  Even  the  lighter  literature  is  mechanically 
« systematized »  in  blocks  of  periods,  authors,  schools,  and 
so  on,  the  latest  specialist  subdividing  the  divisions  of  his 
immediate  predecessor. 

This  is  much  like  an  attempt  to  substitute  spade  hus- 
bandry for  steam  cultivation.  Its  wisdom  and  utility  de- 
pend upon  the  acreage  to  be  tilled  and  the  ambition  of  its 
owner.  Hard  work  in  specific  studies  is  necessary  to  fit  a 
man  for  his  calling-.  Then  comes  pleasure-reading  in  lei- 
sure hours.  It  may  be  that  some  have  grown  so  used  to 
harness  that  their  very  recreation  must  be  by  rigid  rule. 
For  such  the  delights  of  roaming  at  large  over  the  open 
champaign  of  breezy  literature  have  no  temptation.  May 
they  find  happiness  in  cultivating  their  carefully  fenced  back- 
yards. 

The  wanderer  through  the  wilderness  of  noble  writings 
will  enhance  his  pleasure  by  occasionally  following  in  the 
track  of  the  centuries.  A  certain  orderliness  brings  out  the 
best  qualities  of  every  sort  of  banquet,  while  yet  the  appe- 
tite is  piqued  by  the  variety  and  abundance  of  the  viands. 
The  literature  of  one  period  takes  flavor  from  that  which 
preceded  it  and  gives  a  richer  gusto  to  the  style  that  follows. 
Haphazard  reading  fails  to  yield  this  extra  charm,  just  as 
mechanical  study  blunts  the  subtler  perceptions. 

The  golden  mean  for  the  lover  of  all  the  good  fellows  who 
glorified  our  literature  by  honest  work  in  all  the  styles  of  all 
the  centuries  is  to  sip  their  sweets  as  the  bee  sucks,  now  the 
meadow  clover,  and  now  the  garden  flowers,  in  happy  free- 

(vii) 


2041633 


viii  ENGLISH  BELLES-LETTRES 

dom,  yet  with  practical  intent  to  make  the  most  of  them,  by 
contrast  and  roving  as  the  sun  goes.  The  field  of  English 
pleasure-reading  is  old  and  vast  and  richly  variegated.  Our 
cullings  make  a  nosegay  grateful  to  the  pleasure-sense  and 
satisfying  to  the  mind. 

The  thousandth  anniversary  of  great  King  Alfred,  who 
established  his  nation  on  the  rock  of  its  people's  enlightened 
patriotism,  has  brought  his  splendid  character  into  public 
view.  He  was  the  first  strong  Englishman  to  foresee  the 
more  than  kingly  puissance  of  the  song  and  written  book. 
He  used  scholars  as  a  higher  type  of  fighting  men,  himself 
the  lifelong  active  head  and  inspirer  of  the  navy,  the  army, 
and  the  singers  and  writers  whose  joint  labors  made  the 
unity  and  greatness  of  his  country.  His  sympathetic  para- 
phrase of  the  reflections  of  Boethius  fitly  heads  the  procession 
of  these  too  little  known  good  men  and  brave  writers  of  old- 
time  England. 

If  the  new  acquaintances  Roger  Ascham  will  make  by  this 
introduction  of  him  do  not  find  him  one  of  the  raciest,  witti- 
est, and  shrewdest  good  fellows  they  ever  met  in  books, 
some  other  reason  for  the  failure  must  be  found  than  his 
quaint  Elizabethan  English,  with  its  amusing  and  enviable 
defiance  of  pedantic  diction-tinkers. 

Gascoigne's  sturdy  plain  speech  may  amaze  some  mis- 
guided souls  who  have  lived  in  the  delusion  that  rasping, 
satirical  criticism  of  high-placed  wrongdoers  is  a  product  of 
latter-day  progressive  intellectuality.  The  gentler  spirit  of 
Philip  Sidney  and  Selden's  homely  wisdom  make  a  pleasing 
change  of  theme  and  style.  The  acceptance  of  the  crema- 
tion usage  gives  this  generation  a  closer  interest  in  the  ma- 
jestic phrases  of  Sir  Thomas  Browne's  seventeenth  century 
prose-poem  on  urn  burial.  A  dip  into  the  mordant  humor 
of  John  Arbuthnot,  friend  of  Swift  and  Pope,  and  envied 
for  his  wit  by  both,  followed  by  a  pondering  of  Lord  Boling- 
broke's  cogent  philosophical  Letter,  will  enlarge  our  ap- 
preciation of  the  varied  and  profound  qualities  in  the  less 
familiar  writers  of  their  time. 

Poor  Chatterton's  impracticable  temperament  and  pitiful 
ending  shed  a  sombre  twilight  glamour  upon  the  output  of 
his  undoubted  genius.     And  Coleridge,  no  more  self -man- 


SPECIAL   INTRODUCTION  be 

ageable  despite  a  long  life  of  hard  discipline,  affords  the 
reader  the  opportunity  partly  to  realize  some  of  the  disheart- 
ening hindrances  that  have  crushed  to  earth  rare  souls, 
whose  truant  or  feeble  guardian  angels  failed  to  ballast  them 
with  the  coarser  fibres  that  too  often  enable  talent  to  pass 
itself  off  as  genius. 

So  this  widely  gathered  handful  of  fragrant  wild-flowers 
and  choice  blooms  may  serve  to  quicken  the  taste  for  more 
of  the  same  growths ;  and  if  it  shall  send  the  reader  on  vague 
rambling  quests  over  the  hills  and  dales  where  the  fairies 
dwell,  he  will  at  least  have  a  bracing  air  and  healthy  exer- 
cise for  his  pains,  and  the  likelihood  of  finding  companion- 
ships that  will  give  a  new  zest  to  life. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

The  Consolations  of  Philosophy. 

Version  of  Boethius  by  Alfred  the  Great,  •        I 

Toxophilus,  the  Schoole  of  Shootynge, 

by  Roger  Ascham, 25 

The  Steel  Glass,  a  Satire, 

by  George  Gascoigne, 81 

An  Apologie  for  Poetrie, 

by  Sir  Philip  Sidney in 

The  Table-Talk 

of  John  Selden 163 

Hydriotaphia  (Urn-Burial), 

by  Sir  Thomas  Browne 197 

The  Pit  of  Law,  and  History  of  John  Bull, 

by  John  Arbuthnot 243 

On  Reticence  in  Criticism, 

by  Henry  St.  John,  Lord  Bolingbroke,   .        .        .         285 

Poems, 

by  Thomas  Chatterton 317 

Biographia  Literaria, 

by  S.  T.  Coleridge,  ..♦...,         335 


<«i) 


THE    CONSOLATIONS    OF 
PHILOSOPHY 


A  TRANSLATION  FROM  BOETHIUS,  WITH  ORIGINAL 
RENDERINGS  AND  ADDITIONS 


BY 

KING  ALFRED  THE   GREAT 


ALFRED  THE   GREAT 


Few  men  have  crowded  so  much  into  fifty-two  years  of  life  as  King 
Alfred  and  Shakespeare.  Alfred  was  remarkable  as  a  man  of  action 
on  the  heroic  scale.  When  he  received  the  sceptre  at  twenty-three 
years  of  age,  he  found  his  kingdom  broken  and  disheartened  under  the 
assaults  of  the  Danes,  and  had  to  give  up  his  throne  for  a  time.  He 
tackled  his  troubles  bravely  and  with  rare  clear-sightedness.  There 
was  no  navy,  so  he  learned  how  to  build  ships  and  make  war  with  them. 
He  led  his  army  in  person,  and  after  playing  the  spy  in  the  guise  of  a 
wandering  minstrel  in  the  enemy's  camp,  he  thrashed  them  soundly 
and  unified  his  enlarged  kingdom. 

The  fighting  over,  Alfred  indulged  his  noble  hobby  of  spreading  a 
taste  for  letters  and  learning  among  all  ranks  of  his  people.  Scholars 
were  few  in  those  turbulent  days.  He  engaged  Alcuin,  the  learned 
Frenchman,  to  live  at  his  court,  where  he  held  the  place  of  honor.  The 
King  himself  established  schools  for  the  sons  of  the  nobility  and  taught 
in  them.  To  instil  patriotic  pride  in  the  hearts  of  the  common  people, 
Alfred  used  to  go  familiarly  among  them  in  their  homes  in  the  even- 
ings, and  sing  to  them  the  ballads  that  told  of  struggles  and  victories, 
and  the  romance  of  heroism.  He  believed  rightly  that  the  short  cut 
to  the  national  heart  is  through  music  and  rhymed  story. 

For  the  learned  class,  and  a  loving  posterity,  Alfred  rendered  the 
work  of  Boethius  into  English,  of  which  an  example  is  here  given.  It 
is  a  free  paraphrase,  embodying  much  of  his  own  experience  and 
views.  Part  of  it  he  put  into  verse.  Alfred  knew  the  seamy  side  of 
life,  its  troubles,  difficulties,  and  sorrows.  In  his  Preface,  he  patheti- 
cally pleads  for  lenient  judgment  if  his  translated  passages  are  less 
faithful  as  to  meaning  than  they  might  be.  "  For  every  man  must  ac- 
cording to  the  measure  of  his  understanding,  and  his  leisure,  speak  that 
which  he  speaketh  and  do  that  which  he  doeth."  Alfred  was  born  in 
849,  and  died  in  901,  revered  by  his  people  as  "England's  darling." 


THE  CONSOLATIONS  OF  PHILOSOPHY 


It  is  the  condition  of  the  life  of  men,  that  they  then  only 
are  before  all  other  creatures,  when  they  themselves  know 
what  they  are,  and  whence  they  are:  and  they  are  worse 
than  cattle,  when  they  will  not  know  what  they  are,  or 
whence  they  are.  It  is  the  nature  of  cattle  that  they  know 
not  what  they  are ;  but  it  is  a  fault  in  men,  that  they  know 
not  what  they  are.  It  is  therefore  very  plain  to  thee,  that 
ye  are  in  error,  when  ye  think  that  any  one  can  be  made 
honorable  by  external  riches.  If  any  one  is  made  honora- 
ble with  any  riches,  and  endowed  with  any  valuable  posses- 
sions, does  not  the  honor  then  belong  to  that  which  makes 
him  honorable  ?  That  is  to  be  praised  somewhat  more  rightly. 
That  which  is  adorned  with  anything  else,  is  not  therefore 
fairer,  though  the  ornaments  be  fair,  with  which  it  is 
adorned.  If  it  before  was  vile,  it  is  not  on  that  account 
fairer.  Know  thou,  assuredly,  that  no  good  hurts  him  who 
possesses  it.  Thou  knowest  that  I  lie  not  to  thee,  and  also 
knowest  that  riches  often  hurt  those  who  possess  them,  in 
many  things :  and  in  this  chiefly,  that  men  become  so  lifted 
up  on  account  of  riches,  that  frequently  the  worst  man  of  all, 
and  the  most  unworthy  of  all,  thinks  that  he  is  deserving  of 
all  the  wealth  which  is  in  this  world,  if  he  knew  how  he 
might  arrive  at  it.  He  who  has  great  riches,  dreads  many 
an  enemy.  If  he  had  no  possessions,  he  would  not  need  to 
dread  any.  If  thou  wert  travelling,  and  hadst  much  gold 
about  thee,  and  thou  then  shouldest  meet  with  a  gang  of 
thieves,  then  wouldest  not  thou  be  anxious  for  thy  life?  If 
thou  hadst  nothing  of  this  kind,  then  thou  wouldest  not  need 
to  dread  anything,  but  mightest  go  singing  the  old  adage 
which  men  formerly  sung,  that  the  naked  traveller  fears  noth- 
ing.    When  thou  then  wert  safe,  and  the  thieves  were  de- 

3 


4  KING  ALFRED'S 

parted  from  thee,  then  mightest  thou  scoff  at  these  present 
riches,  and  mightest  say,  O,  how  good  and  pleasant  it  is, 
that  any  one  should  possess  great  wealth,  since  he  who  ob- 
tains it  is  never  secure ! 

When  Reason  had  made  this  speech,  she  began  to  sing, 
and  thus  said :  O,  how  happy  was  the  first  age  of  this  middle- 
earth,  when  to  every  man  there  seemed  enough  in  the  fruits 
of  the  earth!  There  were  not  then  splendid  houses,  nor 
various  sweetmeats  nor  drinks ;  nor  were  they  desirous  of 
costly  apparel,  for  they  as  yet  were  not,  nor  did  they  see  or 
hear  anything  of  them.  They  cared  not  for  any  luxury,  but 
very  temperately  followed  nature.  They  always  ate  once 
in  the  day,  and  that  was  in  the  evening.  They  ate  the  fruits 
of  trees,  and  herbs.  They  drank  no  pure  wine,  nor  knew 
they  how  to  mix  any  liquor  with  honey,  nor  cared  they  for 
silken  garments  of  various  colors.  They  always  slept  out 
in  the  shade  of  trees.  They  drank  the  water  of  the  clear 
springs.  No  merchant  visited  island  or  coast,  nor  did  any 
man  as  yet  hear  of  any  ship-army,  nor  even  the  mention  of 
any  war.  The  earth  was  not  yet  polluted  with  the  blood  of 
slain  men,  nor  was  any  one  even  wounded.  They  did  not 
as  yet  look  upon  evil-minded  men.  Such  had  no  honor ;  nor 
did  any  man  love  them.  Alas,  that  our  times  cannot  now 
become  such!  But  now  the  covetousness  of  men  is  as  burn- 
ing as  the  fire  in  the  hell,  which  is  in  the  mountain  that  is 
called  ^Etna,  in  the  island  that  is  called  Sicily.  The  moun- 
tain is  always  burning  with  brimstone,  and  burns  up  all  the 
near  places  thereabout.  Alas,  what  was  the  first  avaricious 
man,  who  first  began  to  dig  the  earth  after  gold,  and  after 
gems,  and  found  the  dangerous  treasure,  which  before  was 
hid  and  covered  with  the  earth ! 

When  Wisdom  had  sung  this  lay,  then  began  he  again 
to  speak,  and  thus  said :  What  more  can  I  say  to  thee,  con- 
cerning the  dignity  and  concerning  the  power  of  this  world? 
For  power  ye  would  raise  yourselves  up  to  heaven,  if  ye 
were  able.  This  is,  because  ye  do  not  remember,  nor  un- 
derstand, the  heavenly  power  and  the  dignity  which  is  your 
own,  and  whence  ye  came.  What,  then,  with  regard  to  your 
wealth,  and  your  power,  which  ye  now  call  dignity,  if  it 
should  come  to  the  worst  men  of  all,  and  to  him  that  of  all 


BOETHIUS  5 

is  unworthiest  of  it,  as  it  lately  did  to  this  same  Theodoric, 
and  also  formerly  to  Nero  the  Caesar,  and  moreover  fre- 
quently to  many  like  them?  Will  he  not  then  do  as  they 
did,  and  still  do?  slay  and  destroy  all  the  rich  who  are  under, 
or  anywhere  near  him,  as  the  flame  of  fire  does  the  dry 
heath  field,  or  as  the  burning  brimstone  burneth  the  moun- 
tain which  we  call  JEtna,  which  is  in  the  island  of  Sicily? 
very  like  to  the  great  flood  which  was  formerly  in  Noah's 
days.  I  think  that  thou  mayest  remember  that  your  ancient 
Roman  senators  formerly,  in  the  days  of  Tarquin  the  proud 
king,  on  account  of  his  arrogance  first  banished  the  kingly 
name  from  the  city  of  Rome.  And  again,  in  like  manner, 
the  consuls  who  had  driven  them  out,  these  they  were  after- 
ward desirous  to  expel  on  account  of  their  arrogance  (but 
they  could  not) ;  because  the  latter  government  of  the  con- 
suls still  less  pleased  the  Roman  senators,  than  the  former 
one  of  the  kings. 

If,  however,  it  happens,  that  power  and  dignity  come  to 
good  men  and  to  wise;  what  is  there  then  worthy  of  es- 
teem, except  the  good  and  the  dignity  of  him,  the  good  king, 
not  of  the  power?  For  power  never  is  good  unless  he  is 
good  who  possesses  it.  Therefore  if  power  be  good,  it  is 
the  good  of  the  man,  not  of  the  power.  Hence  it  is,  that  no 
man  by  his  authority  comes  to  virtues  and  to  merit :  but  by 
his  virtues,  and  by  his  merit,  he  comes  to  authority  and  to 
power.  Therefore  is  no  man  for  his  power  the  better ;  but 
for  his  virtues  he  is  good,  if  he  be  good :  and  for  his  virtues 
he  is  deserving  of  power,  if  he  be  deserving  of  it.  Learn, 
therefore,  wisdom;  and  when  ye  have  learned  it,  do  not 
then  despise  it.  Then  I  say  to  you,  without  all  doubt,  that 
ye  may  through  it  arrive  at  power,  though  ye  be  not  desir- 
ous of  power.  Ye  need  not  be  anxious  for  power,  nor  press 
after  it.  If  ye  are  wise  and  good,  it  will  follow  you,  though 
ye  are  not  desirous  of  it.  But  tell  me  now,  what  is  your 
most  valuable  wealth  and  power,  which  ye  most  desire?  I 
know,  however,  that  it  is  this  present  life,  and  this  perishing 
wealth,  which  we  before  spoke  about. 

When  Wisdom  had  sung  this  lay,  then  began  he  again  to 
speak,  and  thus  said:  Dost  thou  think  that  the  king's  famil- 
iarity, and  the  wealth  and  the  power  which. he  gives  to  his 


6  KING  ALFRED'S 

favorites,  can  make  any  man  wealthy  or  powerful?  Then 
answered  I,  and  said:  Why  cannot  they?  What  in  this  pres- 
ent life  is  pleasanter  and  better  than  the  king's  service  and 
his  presence,  and  moreover  wealth  and  power?  Then  an- 
swered Wisdom,  and  said :  Tell  me,  now.  whether  thou  hast 
ever  heard,  that  it  always  remained  to  any  one  who  was  be- 
fore us?  or  thinkest  thou  that  any  one  who  now  has  it,  can 
always  have  it?  Dost  thou  not  know  that  all  books  are  full 
of  examples  of  the  men  who  were  before  us,  and  every  one 
knows  concerning  those  who  are  now  living,  that  from  many 
a  king  power  and  wealth  go  away,  until  he  afterward  be- 
comes poor?  Alas!  is  that,  then,  very  excellent  wealth, 
which  can  preserve  neither  itself  nor  its  lord,  so  that  he 
may  not  have  need  of  more  help,  lest  they  should  both  be 
lost?  But  is  not  this  your  highest  felicity — the  power  of 
kings?  And  yet  if  to  the  king  there  be  a  want  of  anything 
desired,  then  that  lessens  his  power,  and  augments  his  mis- 
ery. Therefore  these  your  felicities  are  always  in  some  re- 
spects infelicities!  Moreover  kings,  though  they  govern 
many  nations,  yet  they  do  not  govern  all  those  which  they 
would  govern ;  but  are  very  wretched  in  their  mind,  because 
they  have  not  some  of  those  things  which  they  would  have : 
for  I  know  that  the  king  who  is  rapacious  has  more  wretch- 
edness than  power.  Therefore  a  certain  king,  who  unjustly 
came  to  empire,  formerly  said :  O,  how  happy  is  the  man  to 
whom  a  naked  sword  hangs  not  always  over  the  head  by  a 
small  thread,  as  to  me  it  ever  yet  has  done !  How  does  it 
now  appear  to  thee?  How  do  wealth  and  power  please  thee, 
when  they  are  never  without  fear,  and  difficulties,  and  anx- 
ieties? Thou  knowest  that  every  king  would  be  without 
these,  and  yet  have  power  if  he  might.  But  I  know  that  he 
cannot :  therefore  I  wonder  why  they  glory  in  such  power. 

Does  it  seem  to  thee  that  the  man  has  power,  and  is 
truly  happy,  who  always  desires  that  which  he  cannot  ob- 
tain? Or  thinkest  thou  that  he  is  really  happy  who  always 
goes  with  a  great  company?  Or  again,  he  who  dreads  both 
him  that  is  in  dread  of  him,  and  him  that  is  not  in  dread  of 
him?  Does  it  seem  to  thee  that  the  man  has  great  power 
who  seemed  to  himself  to  have  none,  even  as  to  many  a  man 
it  seems  that  he  has  none,  unless  he  have  many  a  man  to 


BOETHIUS  7 

serve  him?  What  shall  we  now  say  more  concerning  the 
king,  and  concerning  his  followers,  except  that  every  rational 
man  may  know  that  they  are  full  miserable  and  weak?  How 
can  kings  deny  or  conceal  their  weakness,  when  they  are 
not  able  to  attain  any  honor  without  their  thanes'  assistance? 

What  else  shall  we  say  concerning  thanes,  but  this,  that 
it  often  happens  that  they  are  bereaved  of  all  honor,  and 
even  of  life,  by  their  perfidious  king.  Thus  we  know  that 
the  wicked  king  Nero  would  hate  his  own  master,  and  kill 
his  foster-father,  whose  name  was  Seneca.  He  was  a  phi- 
losopher. When,  therefore,  he  found  that  he  must  die,  he 
offered  all  his  possessions  for  his  life,  but  the  king  would 
not  accept  of  it,  or  grant  him  his  life.  When  he  learned 
this,  he  chose  for  himself  the  death,  that  they  should  let  for 
him  blood  from  the  arm ;  and  they  did  so.  We  have  also 
heard  that  Papinianus  was  to  Antoninus  the  Caesar,  of  all 
his  favorites  the  most  beloved,  and  of  all  his  people  had  the 
greatest  power.  But  he  gave  order  to  bind,  and  afterward 
to  slay  him.  Yet  all  men  know  that  Seneca  was  to  Nero, 
and  Papinianus  to  Antoninus,  the  most  worthy  and  the  most 
dear;  and  they  had  the  greatest  power,  both  in  their  court 
and  elsewhere,  and  nevertheless,  without  any  guilt,  they 
were  destroyed!  Yet  they  both  desired,  most  earnestly, 
that  the  lords  would  take  whatsoever  they  had,  and  let  them 
live,  but  they  could  not  obtain  it :  for  the  cruelty  of  those 
kings  was  so  severe,  that  their  submission  could  naught  avail, 
nor  indeed  would  their  high-mindedness,  howsoever  they 
might  do,  have  availed  them  either,  but  they  were  obliged 
to  lose  life.  For  he  who  does  not  take  timely  care  for  him- 
self, will  at  length  be  destitute. 

How  doth  power  and  wealth  please  thee,  now  that  a  man 
neither  can  have  it  without  fear,  nor  can  part  with  it  though 
he  wish?  What  did  the  crowd  of  friends  avail  the  favorites 
of  those  kings,  or  what  avails  it  to  any  man?  For  friends 
come  with  wealth,  and  again  with  wealth  go  away,  except 
very  few.  But  the  friends  who  before,  for  wealth's  sake, 
love  any  one,  go  away  afterward  with  the  wealth,  and  then 
turn  to  enemies.  But  the  few,  who  before  loved  him  for 
affection  and  for  fidelity,  these  would,  nevertheless,  love 
him  though  he  were  poor.     These  remain  to  him.     What  is 


8  KING  ALFRED'S 

a  worse  plague,  or  greater  hurt  to  any  man,  than  that  he 
have,  in  his  society  and  in  his  presence,  an  enemy  in  the 
likeness  of  a  friend? 

When  Wisdom  had  made  this  speech,  then  began  he  again 
to  sing,  and  thus  said:  Whosoever  desires  fully  to  possess 
power,  ought  to  labor  first  that  he  may  have  power  over  his 
own  mind,  and  be  not  indecently  subject  to  his  vices;  also 
let  him  put  away  from  his  mind  unbecoming  anxieties,  and 
desist  from  complaints  of  his  misfortunes.  Though  he  reign 
over  all  the  middle-earth,  from  eastward  to  westward,  from 
India,  which  is  the  southeast  end  of  this  middle-earth,  to 
the  island  which  we  call  Thule,  which  is  at  the  northwest 
end  of  this  middle-earth,  where  there  is  neither  night  in 
summer  nor  day  in  winter ;  though  he  rule  even  all  this,  he 
has  not  the  more  power,  if  he  has  not  power  over  his  mind, 
and  if  he  does  not  guard  himself  against  the  vices  which  we 
have  before  spoken  about. 

When  Wisdom  had  sung  this  song,  then  began  he  again 
to  make  a  speech,  and  said :  Worthless  and  very  false  is  the 
glory  of  this  world !  Concerning  this  a  certain  poet  formerly 
sung.  When  he  contemned  this  present  life,  he  said:  O 
glory  of  this  world !  Alas !  why  do  foolish  men  call  thee 
with  false  voice,  glory,  when  thou  art  none !  For  man  more 
frequently  has  great  renown,  and  great  glory,  and  great 
honor,  through  the  opinion  of  foolish  people,  than  he  has 
through  his  deservings.  But  tell  me  now,  what  is  more 
unsuitable  than  this :  or  why  men  may  not  rather  be  ashamed 
of  themselves  than  rejoice,  when  they  hear  that  any  one 
belies  them?  Though  men  even  rightly  praise  any  one  of 
the  good,  he  ought  not  the  sooner  to  rejoice  immoderately 
at  the  people's  words.  But  at  this  he  ought  to  rejoice,  that 
they  speak  truth  of  him.  Though  he  rejoice  at  this,  that 
they  spread  his  name,  it  is  not  the  sooner  so  extensively 
spread  as  he  persuades  himself;  for  they  cannot  spread  it 
over  all  the  earth,  though  they  may  in  some  land ;  for  though 
it  be  praised  in  one,  yet  in  another  it  is  not  praised. 
Though  he  in  this  land  be  celebrated,  yet  is  he  not  in  an- 
other. 

Therefore  is  the  people's  esteem  to  be  held  by  every 
man    for   nothing;   since  it   comes  not  to   every  man   ac- 


BOETHIUS  9 

cording  to  his  deserts,  nor  indeed  remains  always  to  any 
one.  Consider  first  concerning  birth :  if  any  one  boast  of  it, 
how  vain  and  how  useless  is  the  boast ;  for  every  one  knows 
that  all  men  come  from  one  father  and  from  one  mother. 
Or  again,  concerning  the  people's  esteem,  and  concerning 
their  applause.  I  know  not  why  we  rejoice  at  it.  Though 
they  be  illustrious  whom  the  vulgar  applaud,  yet  are  they 
more  illustrious  and  more  rightly  to  be  applauded  who  are 
dignified  by  virtues.  For  no  man  is  really  the  greater  or 
the  more  praiseworthy  for  the  excellence  of  another,  or  for 
his  virtues,  if  he  himself  has  it  not.  Art  thou  ever  the  fairer 
for  another  man's  fairness?  A  man  is  full  little  the  better 
though  he  have  a  good  father,  if  he  himself  is  incapable  of 
anything.  Therefore  I  advise  that  thou  rejoice  in  other 
men's  good  and  their  nobility,  so  far  only,  that  thou  ascribe 
it  not  to  thyself  as  thine  own.  Because  every  man's  good, 
and  his  nobility,  is  more  in  the  mind  than  in  the  flesh.  This 
only,  indeed,  I  know  of  good  in  nobility;  that  it  shames 
many  a  man,  if  he  be  worse  than  his  ancestors  were ;  and 
therefore  he  strives  with  all  his  power  to  reach  the  manners 
of  some  one  of  the  best,  and  his  virtues. 

When  Wisdom  had  finished  this  speech,  then  began  he 
again  to  sing  about  the  same,  and  said :  Trul37  all  men  had 
a  like  beginning,  for  they  all  came  from  one  father  and  from 
one  mother :  the}'  are  all,  moreover,  born  alike.  That  is  no 
wonder,  because  one  God  is  father  of  all  creatures ;  for  he 
made  them  all,  and  governs  them  all.  He  gives  light  to  the 
sun,  and  to  the  moon,  and  places  all  the  stars.  He  has 
created  men  on  the  earth,  joined  together  the  soul  and  the 
body  by  his  power,  and  made  all  men  equally  noble  in  their 
original  nature.  Why  do  ye  then  lift  up  yourselves  above 
other  men,  on  account  of  your  birth,  without  cause,  since 
ye  can  find  none  unnoble,  but  all  are  equally  noble,  if  ye  are 
willing  to  remember  the  creation,  and  the  Creator,  and 
moreover  the  birth  of  every  one  of  you?  But  true  nobility 
is  in  the  mind,  not  in  the  flesh,  as  we  have  before  said.  But 
every  man,  who  is  altogether  subject  to  vices,  forsakes  his 
Maker,  and  his  first  origin,  and  his  nobility,  and  thence  be- 
come degraded  till  he  is  unnoble. 

He  began  to  sing  again,  and  said :  Happy  is  the  man  who 


io  KING  ALFRED'S 

can  behold  the  clear  fountain  of  the  highest  good,  and  can 
put  away  from  himself  the  darkness  of  his  mind!  We  will 
now  from  old  fables  relate  to  thee  a  story.  It  happened 
formerly  that  there  was  a  harper  in  the  country  called  Thrace, 
which  was  in  Greece.  The  harper  was  inconceivably  good. 
His  name  was  Orpheus.  He  had  a  very  excellent  wife,  who 
was  called  Eurydice.  Then  began  men  to  say  concerning 
the  harper,  that  he  could  harp  so  that  the  wood  moved,  and 
the  stones  stirred  themselves  at  the  sound,  and  wild  beasts 
would  run  thereto,  and  stand  as  if  they  were  tame ;  so  still, 
that  though  men  or  hounds  pursued  them,  they  shunned 
them  not.  Then  said  they,  that  the  harper's  wife  should 
die,  and  her  soul  should  be  led  to  hell.  Then  should  the 
harper  become  so  sorrowful  that  he  could  not  remain  among 
other  men,  but  frequented  the  wood,  and  sat  on  the  moun- 
tains, both  day  and  night,  weeping  and  harping,  so  that  the 
woods  shook,  and  the  rivers  stood  still,  and  no  hart  shunned 
any  lion  nor  hare  any  hound ;  nor  did  cattle  know  any  hatred, 
or  any  fear  of  others,  for  the  pleasure  of  the  sound.  Then  it 
seemed  to  the  harper  that  nothing  in  this  world  pleased  him. 
Then  thought  he  that  he  would  seek  the  gods  of  hell, 
and  endeavor  to  allure  them  with  his  harp,  and  pray  that 
they  would  give  him  back  his  wife.  When  he  came  thither, 
then  should  there  come  toward  him  the  dog  of  hell,  whose 
name  was  Cerberus :  he  should  have  three  heads,  and  began 
to  wag  his  tail,  and  play  with  him  for  his  harping.  Then 
was  there  also  a  very  horrible  gatekeeper,  whose  name 
should  be  Charon.  He  had  also  three  heads,  and  he  was 
very  old.  Then  began  the  harper  to  beseech  him  that  he 
would  protect  him  while  he  was  there,  and  bring  him  thence 
again  safe.  Then  did  he  promise  that  to  him,  because  he 
was  desirous  of  the  unaccustomed  sound.  Then  went  he 
farther,  until  he  met  the  fierce  goddesses,  whom  the  com- 
mon people  called  Parcae,  of  whom  they  say,  that  they  know 
no  respect  for  any  man,  but  punish  every  man  according  to 
his  deeds ;  and  of  whom  they  say,  that  they  control  every 
man's  fortune.  Then  began  he  to  implore  their  mercy. 
Then  began  they  to  weep  with  him.  Then  went  he  farther, 
and  all  the  inhabitants  of  hell  ran  toward  him,  and  led  him 
to  their  king;   and  all  began  to  speak  with  him,  and  to  pray 


BOETHIUS  II 

that  which  he  prayed.  And  the  restless  wheel  which  Ixion 
the  king  of  the  Lapithae  was  bound  to  for  his  guilt ;  that 
stood  still  for  his  harping.  And  Tantalus  the  king,  who  in 
this  world  was  immoderately  greedy,  and  whom  that  same 
vice  of  greediness  followed  there ;  he  became  quiet.  And 
the  vulture  should  cease,  so  that  he  tore  not  the  liver  of 
Tityus  the  king,  which  before  therewith  tormented  him. 
And  all  the  punishments  of  the  inhabitants  of  hell  were  sus- 
pended, while  he  harped  before  the  king.  When  he  long 
and  long  had  harped,  then  spoke  the  king  of  the  inhabitants 
of  hell. 

He  said :  Let  us  give  the  man  his  wife,  for  he  has  earned 
her  by  his  harping.  He  then  commanded  him  that  he 
should  well  observe  that  he  never  looked  backward  after 
he  departed  thence,  and  said,  if  he  looked  backward,  that 
he  should  lose  the  woman.  But  men  can  with  great  diffi- 
culty, if  at  all,  restrain  love!  Well-away!  what!  Orpheus 
then  led  his  wife  with  him  till  he  came  to  the  boundary  of 
light  and  darkness.  Then  went  his  wife  after  him.  When 
he  came  forth  into  the  light,  then  looked  he  behind  his  back 
toward  the  woman.  Then  was  she  immediately  lost  to  him. 
This  fable  teaches  every  man  who  desires  to  fly  the  darkness 
of  hell,  and  to  come  to  the  light  of  the  true  good,  that  he 
look  not  about  him  to  his  old  vices,  so  that  he  practise  them 
again  as  fully  as  he  did  before.  For  whosoever  with  full 
will  turns  his  mind  to  the  vices,  which  he  had  before  for- 
saken, and  practises  them,  and  they  then  fully  please  him, 
and  he  never  thinks  of  forsaking  them:  then  loses  he  all 
his  former  good,  unless  he  again  amend  it ! 

I  can  relate  to  thee,  from  ancient  fables,  a  story  very  like 
to  the  subject  which  we  have  just  now  spoken  about.  It 
happened  formerly  in  the  Trojan  war,  that  there  was  a  king 
whose  name  was  Ulysses,  who  had  two  countries  under  the 
Caesar.  The  countries  were  called  Ithaca  and  Retia,  and 
the  Caesar's  name  was  Agamemnon.  When  Ulysses  went 
with  the  Caesar  to  the  battle,  he  had  some  hundred  ships. 
Then  were  they  some  ten  years  in  that  war.  When  the  king 
again  returned  homeward  from  the  Caesar,  and  they  had 
conquered  the  land,  he  had  not  more  ships  than  one ;  but 
that  was  a  ship  with  three  rows  of  oars.     Then  opposed  him 


12  KING  ALFRED'S 

a  great  tempest  and  a  stormy  sea.  He  was  then  driven  on 
an  island  out  in  the  Wendel  sea.  Then  was  there  the  daugh- 
ter of  Apollo,  the  son  of  Jove.  Jove  was  their  king,  and 
pretended  that  he  should  be  the  highest  god,  and  that  fool- 
ish people  believed  him  because  he  was  of  royal  lineage, 
and  they  knew  not  any  other  God  at  that  time,  but  wor- 
shipped their  kings  for  gods.  Then  should  the  father  of 
Jove  be  also  a  god,  whose  name  was  Saturn ;  and  likewise 
all  his  kindred  they  held  for  gods.  Then  was  one  of  them 
the  Apollo  whom  we  before  mentioned.  Apollo's  daughter 
should  be  a  goddess,  whose  name  was  Circe.  She,  they  said, 
should  be  very  skilful  in  sorcery ;  and  she  dwelt  in  the  island 
on  which  the  king  was  driven,  about  whom  we  before  spoke. 
She  had  then  a  great  company  of  her  servants,  and  also 
of  other  maidens.  As  soon  as  she  saw  the  king  driven  thither 
whom  we  before  mentioned,  whose  name  was  Ulysses,  then 
began  she  to  love  him,  and  each  of  them  the  other,  beyond 
measure ;  so  that  he  for  love  of  her  neglected  all  his  king- 
dom, and  his  family,  and  dwelt  with  her  until  the  time  that 
his  thanes  would  no  longer  remain  with  him ;  but  for  love  of 
their  country,  and  on  account  of  exile,  determined  to  leave 
him.  Then  began  false  men  to  work  spells.  And  they  said 
that  she  should  by  her  sorcery  overthrow  the  men,  and  cast 
them  into  the  bodies  of  wild  beasts,  and  afterward  throw 
them  into  chains  and  fetters.  Some,  they  said,  she  should 
transform  to  lions,  and  when  they  should  speak  then  they 
roared.  Some  should  be  wild  boars,  and  when  they  should 
lament  their  misfortune  then  they  grunted.  '  Some  became 
wolves.  These  howled  when  they  should  speak.  Some 
became  that  kind  of  wild  beast  that  man  calls  tiger.  Thus 
was  all  the  company  turned  to  wild  beasts  of  various  kinds ; 
each  to  some  beast,  except  the  king  alone.  Every  meat  they 
refused  which  men  eat,  and  were  desirous  of  those  which 
beasts  eat.  They  had  no  resemblance  of  men  either  in  body 
or  in  voice,  yet  every  one  knew  his  mind,  as  he  before  knew 
it.  That  mind  was  very  sorrowful  through  the  miseries 
which  they  suffered.  Indeed,  the  men  who  believed  these 
fictions,  nevertheless  knew  that  she  by  sorcery  could  not 
change  the  minds  of  men,  though  she  changed  the  bodies. 
How  great  an  excellence  is  that  of  the  mind  in  comparison 


BOETHIUS  13 

of  the  body!  By  these  things,  and  the  like  thou  mayest 
learn,  that  the  excellence  of  the  body  is  in  the  mind ;  and 
that  to  every  man  the  vices  of  his  mind  are  more  hurtful. 
Those  of  the  mind  draw  all  the  body  to  them,  and  the  in- 
firmity of  the  body  cannot  entirely  draw  the  mind  to  it. 

Then  said  I :  I  am  convinced  that  that  is  true  which  thou 
before  saidst,  that  is,  that  it  would  not  be  unfit  that  we 
should  call  evil-willing  men  cattle,  or  wild  beasts,  though 
they  have  the  resemblance  of  man.  But  if  I  had  such 
power  as  the  Almighty  God  has,  then  would  I  not  let  the 
wicked  injure  the  good  so  much  as  they  now  do.  Then  said 
he:  It  is  not  permitted  to  them  so  long  as  thou  supposest. 
But  thou  mayest  be  assured  that  their  prosperity  will  very 
soon  be  removed,  as  I  will  shortly  inform  thee,  though  I 
have  not  leisure  now  on  account  of  other  discourse.  If  they 
had  not  the  vain  power,  which  they  think  they  have,  then 
would  they  not  have  so  great  ptmishment  as  they  shall  have. 
The  wicked  are  much  more  unhappy  when  they  are  able  to 
accomplish  the  evil  which  they  list,  than  the)-  are  when  they 
are  unable  to  do  it ;  though  these  foolish  men  do  not  believe  it. 

It  is  very  wicked  that  any  man  wills  evil,  and  it  is  still 
much  worse  that  he  is  able  to  do  it,  for  the  evil  will  is  dis- 
persed like  incense  before  the  fire,  if  man  is  not  able  to 
accomplish  the  work.  But  the  wicked  have  sometimes  three 
misfortunes:  one  is,  that  they  will  evil;  the  second,  that 
they  are  able  to  do  it ;  the  third,  that  they  accomplish  it. 
For  God  has  decreed  to  give  punishments  and  miseries  to 
wicked  men  for  their  wicked  works.  Then  said  I :  So  it  is 
as  thou  sayest ;  and  yet  I  would  wish,  if  I  might,  that  they 
had  not  the  unhappiness  of  being  able  to  do  evil.  Then 
said  he :  I  think,  however,  that  that  power  will  be  lost  to 
them  sooner  than  either  thou  or  they  would  expect.  For 
nothing  is  of  long  duration  in  this  present  life,  though  it 
seem  to  men  that  it  be  long.  But  very  frequently  the  great 
power  of  the  wicked  falls  very  suddenly,  even  as  a  great 
tree  in  a  wood  makes  a  loud  crash  when  men  least  expect; 
and  through  fear  they  are  always  very  miserable.  But  if 
their  wickedness  makes  them  miserable,  is  not  then  the  long 
evil  always  worse  than  the  short?  Though  the  wicked  never 
died,  I  should  still  say  that  they  were  most  miserable. 


14  KING  ALFRED'S 

If  the  miseries  are  true,  which  we  long  ago  discoursed 
about,  that  the  wicked  should  have  in  this  world,  then  is  it 
evident  that  those  miseries  are  infinite  which  are  eternal. 
Then  said  I :  That  is  wonderful  which  thou  sayest,  and  very 
difficult  to  be  understood  by  foolish  men.  But  I  neverthe- 
less perceive  that  it  appertains  well  enough  to  the  discourse 
which  we  were  before  holding.  Then  said  he :  I  am  not 
now  speaking  to  foolish  men,  but  am  speaking  to  those  who 
desire  to  understand  wisdom ;  for  it  is  a  token  of  wisdom 
that  any  one  is  willing  to  hear  and  understand  it.  But  if 
any  of  the  foolish  doubt  any  of  the  reasonings  which  we 
have  already  uttered  in  this  same  book,  let  him  show,  if  he 
can,  some  one  of  the  arguments  which  is  either  false,  or 
inapplicable  to  the  subject  about  which  we  are  inquiring; 
or  thirdly,  let  him  turn,  understand,  and  believe  that  we 
argue  rightly.  If  he  will  do  none  of  these  things,  then  he 
knows  not  what  he  means. 

As  every  artificer  considers  and  marks  out  his  work  in  his 
mind  before  he  executes  it,  and  afterward  executes  it  all ; 
this  varying  fortune  which  we  call  fate,  proceeds  after  his 
providence  and  after  his  counsel,  as  he  intends  that  it  should 
be.  Though  it  appear  to  us  complicated,  partly  good,  and 
partly  evil,  it  is  nevertheless  to  him  singly  good,  because  he 
brings  it  all  to  a  good  end,  and  does  for  good  all  that  which 
he  does.  Afterward,  when  it  is  wrought,  we  call  it  fate; 
before,  it  was  God's  providence  and  his  predestination.  He 
therefore  directs  fortune,  either  through  good  angels,  or 
through  the  souls  of  men,  or  through  the  life  of  other  crea- 
tures, or  through  the  stars  of  heaven,  or  through  the  various 
deceits  of  devils ;  sometimes  through  one  of  them,  sometimes 
through  them  all.  But  this  is  evidently  known,  that  the 
divine  predestination  is  simple  and  unchangeable,  and  gov- 
erns everything  according  to  order,  and  fashions  everything. 
Some  things,  therefore,  in  this  world  are  subject  to  fate, 
others  are  not  at  all  subject  to  it.  But  fate,  and  all  the 
things  which  are  subject  to  it,  are  subject  to  the  divine  prov- 
idence. Concerning  this,  I  can  mention  to  thee  an  example, 
whereby  thou  mayest  the  more  clearly  understand  which 
men  are  subject  to  fate,  and  which  are  not.  All  this  moving 
and  this  changeable  creation  revolves  on  the  immovable, 


BOETHIUS  15 

and  on  the  steadfast,  and  on  the  singly-existing  God ;  and 
he  governs  all  creatures  as  he  at  the  beginning  had,  and 
still  has  determined. 

As  on  the  axle-tree  of  a  wagon  the  wheel  turns,  and  the 
axle-tree  stands  still,  and  nevertheless  supports  all  the 
wagon,  and  regulates  all  its  progress — the  wheel  turns 
round,  and  the  nave,  being  nearest  to  the  axle-tree,  goes 
much  more  firmly  and  more  securely  than  the  fellies  do — so 
the  axle-tree  may  be  the  highest  good  which  we  call  God, 
and  the  best  men  go  nearest  to  God,  as  the  nave  goes  near- 
est to  the  axle-tree ;  and  the  middle  class  of  men  as  the 
spokes.  For  of  every  spoke,  one  end  is  fixed  in  the  nave,  and 
the  other  in  the  felly.  So  is  it  with  respect  to  the  middle 
class  of  men.  One  while  he  meditates  in  his  mind  concern- 
ing this  earthly  life,  another  while  concerning  the  heavenly : 
as  if  he  should  look  with  one  eye  to  the  heavens,  and  with 
the  other  to  the  earth.  As  the  spokes  stick,  one  end  in  the 
felly,  and  the  other  in  the  nave,  and  the  spoke  is  midward, 
equally  near  to  both,  though  one  end  be  fixed  in  the  nave, 
and  the  other  in  the  felly ;  so  are  the  middle  class  of  men  in 
the  middle  of  the  spokes,  and  the  better  near  to  the  nave, 
and  the  most  numerous  class  nearest  to  the  fellies.  They  are 
nevertheless  fixed  in  the  nave,  and  the  nave  on  the  axle- 
tree.  But  the  fellies  depend  on  the  spokes,  though  they 
wholly  roll  upon  the  earth.  So  do  the  most  numerous  class 
of  men  depend  on  the  middle  class,  and  the  middle  class  on 
the  best,  and  the  best  on  God.  Though  the  most  numerous 
class  turn  all  their  love  toward  this  world,  they  are  not  able 
to  dwell  there,  nor  do  they  come  to  anything,  if  they  are  not 
in  some  measure  fastened  to  God,  any  more  than  the  fellies 
of  the  wheel  can  make  any  progress  if  they  are  not  fastened 
to  the  spokes,  and  the  spokes  to  the  axle-tree.  The  fellies 
are  farthest  from  the  axle-tree,  therefore  they  go  the  most 
roughly.  The  nave  goes  nearest  the  axle-tree,  therefore  it 
goes  the  most  securely.  So  do  the  best  men.  As  they  place 
their  love  nearer  to  God,  and  more  despise  these  earthly 
things,  so  are  they  more  free  from  care,  and  are  less  anxious 
how  fortune  may  vary,  or  what  it  may  bring.  Provided  the 
nave  be  always  thus  secure,  the  fellies  may  rest  on  what  they 
will.     And  yet  the  nave  is  in  some  measure  separated  from 


16  KING  ALFRED'S 

the  axle-tree.  As  thou  mayest  perceive  that  the  wagon  is 
much  longer  secure,  which  is  less  separated  from  the  axle- 
tree  ;  so,  of  all  men,  those  are  most  untroubled,  with  the  diffi- 
culties either  of  this  present  life,  or  of  that  to  come,  who  are 
fixed  in  God ;  but  as  they  are  farther  separated  from  God,  so 
are  they  more  troubled  and  afflicted  both  in  mind  and  in 
body.     Such  is  what  we  call  fate.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  With  respect  to  the  divine  providence ;  as  argument 
and  reasoning  is,  compared  with  the  intellect,  and  such  the 
wheel  is,  compared  with  the  axle-tree.  For  the  axle-tree 
regulates  all  the  wagon.  In  like  manner  does  the  divine 
providence.  It  moves  the  sky  and  the  stars,  and  makes  the 
earth  immovable,  and  regulates  the  four  elements,  that  is, 
water,  and  earth,  and  fire,  and  air.  These  it  tempers  and 
forms,  and  sometimes  again  changes  their  appearance,  and 
brings  them  to  another  form,  and  afterward  renews  them : 
and  nourishes  every  production,  and  again  hides  and  pre- 
serves it  when  it  is  grown  old  and  withered,  and  again  dis- 
covers and  renews  it  whensoever  he  wills.  Some  philoso- 
phers however  say,  that  fate  rules  both  the  felicities  and 
the  infelicities  of  every  man.  But  I  say,  as  all  Christian 
men  say,  that  the  divine  predestination  rules  over  him,  not 
fate.  And  I  know  that  it  decrees  everything  very  rightly ; 
though  to  unwise  men  it  does  not  appear  so.  They  think 
that  everything  which  fulfils  their  desire,  is  God.  It  is  no 
wonder,  for  they  are  blinded  by  the  darkness  of  their  sins. 
But  the  divine  providence  understands  everything  very 
rightly,  though  it  seems  to  us,  through  our  folly,  that  it 
goes  wrongly ;  because  we  cannot  perfectly  understand  it. 
He,  however,  ordains  all  very  rightly,  though  to  us  it  some- 
times does  not  appear  so. 

Then  said  I:  But  whence  came  the  word  chance?  Then 
said  he :  My  beloved  Aristotle  has  explained  it  in  the  book 
called  Physica.  Then  said  I:  How  has  he  explained  it? 
Then  said  he :  Men  said  formerly,  when  anything  happened 
to  them  unexpectedly,  that  it  happened  by  chance :  as  if  any 
one  should  dig  the  earth,  and  find  there  a  hoard  of  gold,  and 
then  say,  that  it  had  happened  by  chance.  I  know,  however, 
that  if  the  digger  had  not  dug  the  earth,  or  man  had  not 
before  hid  the  gold  there,  then  he  would  not  have  found  it. 


BOETHIUS  17 

Therefore  it  was  not  found  by  chance.  But  the  divine 
predestination  instructed  whom  he  would  that  he  should 
hide  the  gold,  and  afterward  whom  he  would,  that  he  should 
find  it. 

Then  said  I :  I  perceive  that  this  is  as  thou  sayest :  but  I 
would  ask  thee  whether  we  have  any  freedom,  or  any  power, 
what  we  may  do,  and  what  we  may  not  do?  or  whether  the 
divine  predestination,  or  fate,  compels  us  to  what  they  will? 
Then  said  he :  We  have  much  power.  There  is  no  rational 
creature  which  has  not  freedom.  Whosoever  has  reason,  is 
able  to  judge  and  discern  what  he  ought  to  desire,  and  what 
he  ought  to  shun.  And  every  man  has  this  freedom,  that 
he  knows  what  he  wills,  and  what  he  wills  not.  And  yet  all 
rational  creatures  have  not  equal  freedom.  Angels  have 
right  judgments  and  good  will ;  and  whatever  they  desire 
they  very  easily  obtain,  because  they  desire  nothing  wrong. 
There  is  no  created  being  which  has  freedom  and  reason  ex- 
cept angels  and  men.  Men  have  always  freedom ;  the  more 
as  they  lead  their  mind  nearer  to  divine  things ;  and  they 
have  so  much  the  less  freedom,  as  they  lead  the  will  of  their 
mind  nearer  to  this  worldly  honor.  They  have  not  any  free- 
dom when  they,  of  their  own  accord,  subject  themselves  to 
vices.  But  as  soon  as  they  turn  away  their  mind  from  good, 
so  soon  do  they  become  blind  with  folly.  But  one  Almighty 
God  exists  in  his  high  city,  who  sees  every  man's  thought, 
and  discerns  his  words  and  his  deeds,  and  renders  to  every 
one  according  to  his  works.  When  Wisdom  had  made  this 
speech,  then  began  he  to  sing,  and  thus  said : 

Though  Homer  the  good  poet,  who  with  the  Greeks  was 
the  best,  he  was  Virgil's  master;  Virgil  was  with  the  Latin 
men  the  best,  though  Homer  in  his  poems  greatly  praised 
the  nature  of  the  sun,  and  her  excellences,  and  her  bright- 
ness; yet  she  cannot  shine  upon  all  creatures,  nor  those 
creatures  which  she  may  shine  upon,  can  she  shine  upon  all 
equally,  nor  shine  through  them  all  within.  But  it  is  not 
so  with  the  Almighty  God,  who  is  the  maker  of  all  creatures. 
He  beholds  and  sees  through  all  his  creatures  equally.  Him 
we  may  call,  without  falsehood,  the  true  sun. 

When  Wisdom  had  sung  this  lay,  then  was  he  silent  a 
little  while.     Then  said  I :  A  certain  doubt  has  much  troub- 


18  KING  ALFRED'S 

led  me.  Then  said  he:  What  is  that?  Then  said  I:  It  is 
this,  that  thou  sayest  that  God  gives  to  every  one  freedom 
as  well  to  do  good  as  evil,  whichsoever  he  will :  and  thou 
sayest  also  that  God  knows  everything  before  it  comes  to 
pass ;  and  thou  sayest  also,  that  nothing  comes  to  pass  unless 
God  wills  and  permits  it :  and  thou  sayest  that  it  must  all 
proceed  as  he  has  ordained.  Now  I  wonder  at  this,  why  he 
permits  that  wicked  men  have  the  freedom  that  they  may 
do  either  good  or  evil,  whichsoever  they  will,  since  he  before 
knows  that  they  will  do  evil.  Then  said  he :  I  can  very 
easily  answer  thee  this  inquiry.  How  would  it  please  thee, 
if  there  were  some  very  powerful  king,  and  he  had  not  any 
free  man  in  all  his  realm,  but  all  were  slaves?  Then  said 
I :  I  should  not  think  it  at  all  right,  or  moreover  suitable,  if 
men  in  a  state  of  slavery  should  serve  him.  Then  said  he : 
How  much  more  unnatural  would  it  be,  if  God  had  not  in 
all  his  kingdom  any  free  creature  under  his  power?  There- 
fore he  created  two  rational  creatures  free,  angels  and  men. 
To  these  he  gave  the  great  gift  of  freedom,  that  they  might 
do  either  good  or  evil,  whichsoever  they  would.  He  gave 
a  very  sure  gift,  and  a  very  sure  law  with  the  gift,  to  every 
man  until  his  end.  That  is  the  freedom,  that  man  may  do 
what  he  will ;  and  that  is  the  law,  which  renders  to  every 
man  according  to  his  works,  both  in  this  world,  and  in  that 
to  come,  good  or  evil,  whichsoever  he  does.  And  men  may 
attain  through  this  freedom  whatsoever  they  will,  except 
that  they  cannot  avoid  death.  But  they  may  by  good  works 
delay  it,  so  that  it  may  come  later:  and  moreover,  they  may 
sometimes  defer  it  till  old  age,  if  they  do  not  cease  to  have 
good  will  to  good  works,  that  is,  good.  Then  said  I :  Well 
hast  thou  set  me  right  in  the  doubt,  and  in  the  trouble 
wherein  I  before  was  concerning  freedom.  But  I  am  still 
disquieted  with  much  more  trouble,  almost  to  despair. 
Then  said  he:  What  is  this  great  disquiet?  Then  said  I:  It 
is  concerning  the  predestination  of  God.  For  we  sometimes 
hear  say,  that  everything  must  so  come  to  pass  as  God  at 
the  beginning  had  decreed,  and  that  no  man  can  alter  it. 
Now  methinks  that  he  does  wrong,  when  he  honors  the 
good,  and  also  when  he  punishes  the  wicked,  if  it  is  true  that 
it  was  so  ordained  to  them  that  they  could  not  do  otherwise. 


BOETHIUS  19 

In  vain  we  labor  when  we  pray,  and  when  we  fast,  or  give 
alms,  if  we  have  not  therefore  more  favor  than  those  who  in 
all  things  walk  according  to  their  own  will,  and  run  after 
their  bodily  lust. 

Then  said  he :  This  is  the  old  complaint,  which  thou  hast 
long  bewailed,  and  many  also  before  thee :  one  of  whom  was 
a  certain  Marcus,  by  another  name  Tullius ;  by  a  third  name 
he  was  called  Cicero,  who  was  a  consul  of  the  Romans.  He 
was  a  philosopher.  He  was  very  much  occupied  with  this 
same  question :  but  he  could  not  bring  it  to  any  end  at  that 
time,  because  their  mind  was  occupied  with  the  desires  of 
this  world.  But  I  say  to  thee,  if  that  is  true  which  ye  say, 
it  was  a  vain  command  in  divine  books,  which  God  com- 
manded, that  man  should  forsake  evil  and  do  good;  and 
again  the  saying  which  he  said,  that  as  man  labors  more,  so 
shall  he  receive  greater  reward.  And  I  wonder  why  thou 
shouldest  have  forgotten  all  that  we  before  mentioned.  We 
before  said  that  the  divine  predestination  wrought  all  good, 
and  no  evil:  nor  decreed  to  work,  nor  ever  wrought  any. 
Moreover,  we  proved  that  to  be  good  which  to  vulgar  men 
seemed  evil :  that  is,  that  man  should  afflict  or  punish  any 
one  for  his  evil.  Did  we  not  also  say  in  this  same  book, 
that  God  had  decreed  to  give  freedom  to  men,  and  so  did ; 
and  if  they  exercised  the  freedom  well,  that  he  would  greatly 
honor  them  with  eternal  power;  and  if  they  abused  the  free- 
dom, that  he  would  then  punish  them  with  death?  He  or- 
dained that  if  they  at  all  sinned  through  the  freedom,  they 
afterward  through  the  freedom  should  make  amends  for  it 
by  repentance ;  and  that  if  any  of  them  were  so  hard-hearted 
that  he  did  not  repent,  he  should  have  just  punishment. 

All  creatures  he  made  servile  except  angels  and  men. 
Because  the  other  creatures  are  servile,  they  perform  their 
services  till  doomsday.  But  men  and  angels,  who  are  free, 
forsake  their  services.  How  can  men  say  that  the  divine 
predestination  had  decreed  what  it  fulfils  not?  Or  how  can 
they  excuse  themselves  that  they  should  not  do  good,  when 
it  is  written  that  God  will  requite  every  man  according  to 
his  works?  Wherefore,  then,  should  any  man  be  idle,  that 
he  work  not?  Then  said  1 :  Thou  hast  sufficiently  relieved 
me  from  the  doubting  of  my  mind  by  the  questions  which  I 


2o  KING  ALFRED'S 

have  asked  thee.  But  I  would  still  ask  thee  a  question, 
which  I  am  perplexed  about.  Then  said  he:  What  is  that? 
Then  said  I :  I  am  well  aware  that  God  knows  everything 
beforehand,  both  good  and  evil,  before  it  happens,  but  I 
know  not  whether  it  all  shall  unchangeably  happen,  which 
he  knows  and  has  decreed.  Then  said  he :  It  need  not  all 
happen  unchangeably.  But  some  of  it  shall  happen  un- 
changeably, that  is,  what  shall  be  our  necessity,  and  shall 
be  his  will.  But  some  of  it  is  so  arranged  that  it  is  not  nec- 
essary, and  yet  hurts  not  if  it  happen ;  nor  is  there  any  harm 
if  it  do  not  happen.  Consider  now  concerning  thyself, 
whether  thou  hast  so  firmly  designed  anything,  that  thou 
thinkest  that  it  never  with  thy  consent  may  be  changed,  nor 
thou  exist  without  it.  Or  whether  thou  again  in  any  design 
art  so  inconsistent,  that  it  aids  thee,  whether  it  happen,  or 
whether  it  happen  not.  Many  a  one  is  there  of  the  things 
which  God  knows  before  it  may  happen,  and  knows  also  that 
it  will  hurt  his  creatures  if  it  happen.  He  does  not  know 
it,  because  he  wills  that  it  should  happen,  but  because  he 
wills  to  provide  that  it  may  not  happen.  Thus  a  good  pilot 
perceives  a  great  storm  of  wind  before  it  happens,  and  gives 
order  to  furl  the  sail,  and  moreover  sometimes  to  lower  the 
mast,  and  let  go  the  cable,  if  he  first  restrain  the  perverse 
wind,  and  so  provides  against  the  storm. 

Wherefore  vex  ye  your  minds  with  evil  hatred,  as  waves 
through  the  wind  agitate  the  sea?  Or  wherefore  upbraid 
ye  your  fortune,  that  she  has  no  power?  Or  why  cannot  )*e 
wait  for  natural  death,  when  he  every  day  hastens  toward 
you?  Why  cannot  ye  observe  that  he  seeks  every  day  after 
birds,  and  after  beasts,  and  after  men,  and  forsakes  no  track 
till  he  seizes  that  which  he  pursues?  Alas!  that  unhappy 
men  cannot  wait  till  he  comes  to  them,  but  anticipate  him, 
as  wild  beasts  wish  to  destroy  each  other!  But  it  would  not 
be  right  in  men,  that  any  one  of  them  should  hate  another. 
But  this  would  be  right,  that  every  one  of  them  should  ren- 
der to  another  recompense  of  every  work  according  to  his 
deserts ;  that  is,  that  one  should  love  the  good,  as  it  is  right 
that  we  should  do,  and  should  have  mercy  on  the  wicked, 
as  we  before  said;  should  love  the  man,  and  hate  his  vices; 
and  cut  them  off,  as  we  best  may. 


BOETHIUS  21 

When  he  had  sung  this  lay,  then  was  he  silent  for  some 
time.  Then  said  I :  Now  I  clearly  understand  that  true 
happiness  is  founded  on  the  deservings  of  good  men,  and 
misery  is  founded  on  the  deservings  of  wicked  men.  But 
I  will  yet  say  that  methinks  the  happiness  of  this  present  life 
is  no  little  good,  and  its  unhappiness  no  little  evil.  For  I 
never  saw  nor  heard  of  any  wise  man  who  would  rather  be 
an  exile,  and  miserable,  and  foreign,  and  despised,  than 
wealthy  and  honorable,  and  powerful,  and  eminent  in  his 
own  country.  For  they  say  that  they  can  the  better  fulfil 
their  wisdom,  and  observe  it,  if  their  power  be  ample  over 
the  people  that  are  under  them,  and  also  in  some  measure 
over  those  who  are  in  the  neighborhood  round  about  them, 
because  they  are  able  to  repress  the  wicked,  and  promote 
the  good.  For  the  good  is  always  to  be  honored,  both  in 
this  present  life  and  in  that  to  come ;  and  the  wicked,  whom 
man  cannot  restrain  from  his  evil,  is  always  deserving  of 
punishment,  both  in  this  world  and  in  that  to  come. 

But  I  wonder  why  it  should  so  fall  out,  as  it  now  often 
does;  that  is,  that  various  punishments  and  manifold  mis- 
fortunes come  to  the  good,  as  they  should  to  the  wicked ; 
and  the  blessings  which  should  be  a  reward  to  good  men  for 
good  works,  come  to  wicked  men.  Therefore  I  would  now 
know  frqm  thee,  how  that  course  of  events  were  approved 
by  thee.  I  should  wonder  at  it  much  less,  if  I  knew  that  it 
happened  by  chance,  without  God's  will,  and  without  his 
knowledge.  But  the  Almighty  God  has  increased  my  fear 
and  my  astonishment  by  these  things.  For  he  sometimes 
gives  felicities  to  the  good,  and  infelicities  to  the  wicked,  as 
it  were  right  that  he  always  did.  Sometimes  again  he  per- 
mits that  the  good  have  infelicities  and  misfortunes  in  many 
things;  and  the  wicked  have  happiness,  and  it  frequently 
happens  to  them  according  to  their  own  desire.  Hence  I 
cannot  think  otherwise  but  that  it  so  happens  by  chance, 
unless  thou  still  more  rationally  show  me  the  contrary. 
Then  answered  he,  after  a  long  time,  and  said:  It  is  no 
wonder  if  any  one  think  that  something  of  this  kind  hap- 
pens undesignedly,  when  he  cannot  understand  and  explain 
wherefore  God  so  permits.  But  thou  oughtest  not  to  doubt 
that  so  good  a  creator  and  governor  of  all  things,  rightly 


22  KING  ALFRED'S 

made  all  that  he  has  made,  and  rightly  judges  and  rules  it 
all,  though  thou  knowest  not  why  he  so  and  so  may  do. 

When  he  had  made  this  speech,  then  began  he  to  sing, 
and  said :  Who  of  the  unlearned  wonders  not  at  the  course 
of  the  sky,  and  its  swiftness;  how  it  every  day  revolves 
about  all  this  middle-earth?  Or  who  wonders  not  that  some 
stars  have  a  shorter  circuit  than  others  have,  as  the  stars 
have  which  we  call  the  wagon's  shafts?  They  have  so  short 
a  circuit,  because  they  are  so  near  the  north  end  of  the  axis, 
on  which  all  the  sky  turns.  Or  who  is  not  astonished  at 
this,  except  those  only  who  know  it,  that  some  stars  have  a 
longer  circuit  than  others  have,  and  those  the  longest  which 
revolve  midward  about  the  axis,  as  Bootes  does?  And  that 
the  star  Saturn  does  not  come  where  it  before  was  till  about 
thirty  winters?  Or  who  wonders  not  at  this,  that  some  stars 
depart  under  the  sea,  as  some  men  think  the  sun  does  when 
she  sets?  But  she  nevertheless  is  not  nearer  to  the  sea  than 
she  is  at  mid-day!  Who  is  not  astonished  when  the  full 
moon  is  covered  over  with  darkness?  or  again,  that  the  stars 
shine  before  the  moon,  and  do  not  shine  before  the  sun?  At 
this  and  many  a  like  thing  they  wonder,  and  wonder  not 
that  men  and  all  living  creatures  have  continual  and  useless 
enmity  with  each  other.  Or  why  wonder  they  not  at  this, 
that  it  sometimes  thunders,  and  sometimes  begins  not?  Or, 
again,  at  the  strife  of  sea  and  winds,  and  waves  and  land?  or 
why  ice  is  formed,  and  again  by  the  shining  of  the  sun  re- 
turns to  its  own  nature?  But  the  inconstant  people  wonder 
at  that  which  it  most  seldom  sees,  though  it  be  less  wonder- 
ful ;  and  thinks  that  that  is  not  the  old  creation,  but  has  b)T 
chance  newly  happened.  But  they  who  are  very  inquisitive 
and  endeavor  to  learn,  if  God  removes  from  their  mind  the 
folly  with  which  it  was  before  covered,  then  will  they  not 
wonder  at  many  things  which  they  now  wonder  at. 

When  Wisdom  had  sung  this  lay,  then  was  he  silent  a  lit- 
tle while.  Then  said  I :  So  it  is  as  thou  sayest.  But  I  am 
still  desirous  that  thou  wouldest  instruct  me  somewhat  more 
distinctly  concerning  the  thing  which  has  chiefly  troubled 
my  mind,  that  is,  what  I  before  asked  thee.  For  it  was 
always  hitherto  thy  wont  that  thou  wouldest  teach  every 
mind  abstruse  and  unknown  things.    Then  began  he  to 


BOETHIUS  23 

smile,  and  said  to  me :  Thou  urgest  me  to  the  greatest  argu- 
ment, and  the  most  difficult  to  explain.  This  explanation 
all  philosophers  have  sought,  and  very  diligently  labored 
about,  and  scarcely  any  one  has  come  to  the  end  of  the  dis- 
cussion. For  it  is  the  nature  of  the  discussion  and  of  the 
inquiry,  that  always  when  there  is  one  doubt  removed,  then 
is  there  an  innumerable  multitude  raised.  So  men  in  old 
tales  say,  that  there  was  a  serpent  which  had  nine  heads, 
and  whenever  any  one  of  them  was  cut  off,  then  grew  there 
seven  from  that  one  head.  Then  happened  it  that  the  cele- 
brated Hercules  came  there,  who  was  the  son  of  Jove.  Then 
could  not  he  imagine  how  he  by  any  art  might  overcome 
them,  until  he  surrounded  them  with  wood,  and  then  burned 
them  with  fire.  So  is  this  argument  which  thou  askest 
about :  with  difficulty  comes  any  man  out  of  it,  if  he  enter 
into  it.  He  never  comes  to  a  clear  end,  unless  he  have  an 
understanding  as  sharp  as  the  fire.  For  he  who  will  inquire 
concerning  this  ought  first  to  know  what  the  simple  provi- 
dence of  God  is,  and  what  fate  is,  and  what  happens  by 
chance,  and  what  the  divine  knowledge  is,  and  the  divine 
predestination,  and  what  the  freedom  of  men  is.  Now  thou 
mayest  perceive  how  weighty  and  difficult  all  this  is  to 
explain. 


THE  BOOKE  OF  THE  SCHOOLE  OF 
SHOOTYNGE 


BY 


ROGER  ASCHAM 


*s 


ROGER  ASCHAM 


Tutor  and  secretary  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  the  first  writer  on 
education  in  England,  Ascham  ranks  among  the  first  great  writers  and 
thinkers  of  that  grand  period.  He  anticipated  educational  doctrines 
and  methods  that  have  the  sanction  of  modern  authorities. 

"Toxophilus, "  a  fascinating  book  from  every  point  of  view,  was 
written  "in  the  Englishe  tongue,  for  Englishe  men,"  the  first  book  of 
its  quality  that  discarded  Latin.  It  set  the  fashion  which  brought  the 
English  language  to  its  literary  perfection. 

Ascham  was  an  enthusiast  for  the  noble  sport  of  archery.  He  was 
born  in  1515  in  Yorkshire.  Up  to  his  writing  of  this  work  in  1544  arch- 
ery was  the  chief  weapon  of  the  soldiery.  Ascham  was  eager  to  in- 
spire the  people  at  large  with  his  own  pride  in  the  national  art  of 
shooting.  Hence  the  double  interest  in  this  book  as  a  brilliant  literary 
and  patriotic  exploit. 

But  the  immortality  of  "Toxophilus  "  is  well  earned  by  the  delicious 
humor,  the  quaint  conceits,  the  wonderful  knowledge,  and  the  happy 
worldly  wisdom  that  glow  from  every  page.  The  writer  is  a  thorough- 
bred sporting  Englishman  as  well  as  a  deep  scholarly  philosopher.  As 
a  fine  example  of  racy  pre-Shakespearian  English,  it  is  delightful 
reading,  full  of  pleasant  surprises  in  its  queerly  spelt  words,  which 
amusingly  indicate  their  origin  and  throw  light  on  many  words  and 
expressions  in  present  use.  The  spelling  of  feather,  leather,  weather, 
as  fedder,  ledder,  wedder,  marks  the  transition  from  Old  English,  with 
its  peculiar  letter  d  standing  for  the  soft  th  as  in  that,  to  the  present 
spelling.  Some  of  these  curious  words  still  survive  in  provincial 
dialects.  Perseverance  in  reading  Ascham's  English  will  quickly 
make  it  a  pleasure  ;  the  seeming  difficulties  vanish  as  his  peculiar  genius 
absorbs  our  attention. 


26 


TOXOPHILUS 

THE   BOOKE   OF   THE  SCHOOLE   OF 
SHOOTYNGE 


Philologus.  What  is  the  chiefe  poynte  in  shootynge,  that 
everye  manne  laboureth  to  come  to? 

Toxophilus.  To  hyt  the  marke. 

Phi.  Howe  manye  thynges  are  required  to  make  a  man 
ever  more  hyt  the  marke? 

Tox.  Twoo. 

Phi.   Whiche  twoo? 

Tox.   Shotinge  streyght  and  kepynge  of  a  lengthe. 

Phil.  Howe  shoulde  a  manne  shoote  strayght,  and  howe 
shulde  a  man  kepe  a  length? 

Tox.  In  knowynge  and  havynge  thinges  belongynge  to 
shootyng:  and  whan  they  be  knowen  and  had,  in  well  hand- 
lynge  of  them :  whereof  some  belong  to  shotyng  strayght, 
some  to  keping  of  a  length,  some  commonly  to  them  bothe, 
as  shall  be  tolde  severally  of  them,  in  place  convenient. 

Phi.  Thynges  belongyng  to  shotyng,  whyche  be  they? 

Tox.  All  thinges  be  outwarde,  and  some  be  instrumentes 
for  every  archer  to  brynge  with  him,  proper  for  his  owne 
use:  other  thynges  be  generall  to  every  man,  as  the  place 
and  tyme  serveth. 

Phi.  Which  be  instrumentes? 

Tox.   Bracer,  shotyngglove,  stryng,  bowe  and  shafte. 

Phi.  Whiche  be  general  to  all  men? 

Tox.  The  wether  and  the  marke,  yet  the  marke  is  ever 
under  the  rule  of  the  wether. 

Phi.  Wherin  standeth  well  handlynge  of  thynges? 

Tox.  All  togyther  wythin  a  man  him  selfe,  some  hand- 
lynge is  proper  to  instrumentes,  some  to  the  wether,  somme 
to  the  marke,  some  is  within  a  man  hymselfe, 

91 


28  ROGER   ASCHAM 

Phi.  What  handlyng  is  proper  to  the  Instrumentes? 

Tox.  Standynge,  nockyng,  drawyng,  holdyng,  loosing, 
wherby  commeth  fayre  shotynge,  whiche  neyther  belong  to 
wynde  nor  wether,  nor  yet  to  the  marke,  for  in  a  rayne  and 
at  no  marke,  a  man  may  shote  a  fayre  shoote. 

Phi.  Well  sayde,  what  handlynge  belongeth  to  the 
wether? 

Tox.  Knowyng  of  his  wynde,  with  hym,  agaynst  hym, 
syde  wynd,  full  syde  wind,  syde  wynde  quarter  with  him, 
syde  wynde  quarter  agaynste  hym,  and  so  forthe. 

Phi.  Well  then  go  to,  what  handlynge  belongeth  to  the 
marke? 

Tox.  To  marke  his  standyng,  to  shoote  compasse,  to  draw 
evermore  lyke,  to  loose  evermore  lyke,  to  consyder  the  na- 
ture of  the  pricke,  in  hylles  and  dales,  in  strayte  planes  and 
winding  places,  and  also  to  espy  his  marke. 

Phi.  Very  well  done.  And  what  is  onely  within  a  man 
hymselfe? 

Tox.  Good  heede  givynge,  and  avoydynge  all  affections : 
whiche  thynges  oftentymes  do  marre  and  make  all.  And 
these  thynges  spoken  of  me  generally  and  brefely,  yf  they 
be  wel  knowen,  had,  and  handled,  shall  brynge  a  man  to 
suche  shootynge,  as  fewe  or  none  ever  yet  came  unto,  but 
surely  yf  he  misse  in  any  one  of  them,  he  can  never  hyt  the 
marke,  and  in  the  more  he  doth  misse,  the  farther  he  shot- 
eth  from  his  marke.  But  as  in  all  other  matters  the  fyrst 
steppe  or  stayre  to  be  good,  is  to  know  a  mannes  faulte,  and 
then  to  amende  it,  and  he  that  wyl  not  knowe  his  faulte, 
shall  never  amende  it. 

Phi.  You  speake  now  Toxophile,  even  as  I  wold  have  you 
to  speake :  But  lette  us  returne  agayne  unto  our  matter,  and 
those  thynges  whyche  you  have  packed  up,  in  so  shorte  a 
roome,  we  wyll  loose  them  forthe,  and  take  every  piece  as  it 
were  in  our  hande  and  looke  more  narowlye  upon  it. 

Tox.  I  am  content,  but  we  wyll  rydde  them  as  fast  as  we 
can,  bycause  the  sunne  goeth  so  faste  downe,  and  yet  some- 
what muste  needes  be  sayde  of  everye  one  of  them. 

Phi.  Well  sayde,  and  I  trowe  we  beganne  wyth  those 
thynges  whiche  be  instrumentes,  whereof  the  fyrste,  as  I 
suppose,  was  the  bracer. 


THE   SCHOOLE   OF   SHOOTYNGE  29 

Tox.  Litle  is  to  be  sayd  of  the  bracer.  A  bracer  serveth 
for  two  causes,  one  to  save  his  arme  from  the  strype  of  the 
strynge,  and  his  doublet  from  wearynge,  and  the  other  is, 
that  the  strynge  glydynge  sharpelye  and  quicklye  of  the 
bracer,  may  make  the  sharper  shoote.  For  if  the  strynge 
shoulde  lyght  upon  the  bare  sieve,  the  strengthe  of  the 
shoote  shoulde  stoppe  and  dye  there.  But  it  is  best  by  my 
judgemente,  to  gyve  the  bowe  so  muche  bent,  that  the 
strynge  neede  never  touche  a  mannes  arme,  and  so  shoulde 
a  man  nede  no  bracer  as  I  knowe  manye  good  Archers,  whiche 
occupye  none.  In  a  bracer  a  man  muste  take  heede  of.  iii. 
thinges ;  that  it  have  no  nayles  in  it,  that  it  have  no  buckles, 
that  it  be  fast  on  with  laces  wythout  agglettes.  For  the 
nayles  wyll  shere  in  sunder  a  mannes  string,  before  he  be 
ware,  and  so  put  his  bowe  in  jeoperdy:  Buckles  and  ag- 
glettes at  un wares,  shall  race  hys  bowe,  a  thinge  bothe  evyll 
to  the  syghte,  and  perilous  for  frettynge.  And  thus  a 
Bracer,  is  onely  had  for  this  purpose,  that  the  strynge  maye 
have  redye  passage. 

Phi.  In  my  Bracer  I  am  cunnyng  ynough,  but  what  saye 
you  of  the  shootyng  glove? 

Tox.  A  shootynge  Glove  is  chieflye  for  to  save  a  mannes 
fyngers  from  hurtynge,  that  he  maye  be  able  to  beare  the 
sharpe  stryng  to  the  uttermost  of  his  strengthe.  And  when 
a  man  shooteth,  the  might  of  his  shoote  lyeth  on  the  for- 
mooste  fynger,  and  on  the  Ringman,  for  the  myddle  fynger 
whiche  is  the  longest,  lyke  a  lubber  starteth  backe,  and 
beareth  no  weyghte  of  the  strynge  in  a  maner  at  all,  ther- 
fore  the  two  other  fyngers,  muste  have  thicker  lether,  and 
that  muste  have  thickest  of  all,  where  on  a  man  looseth 
moste,  and  for  sure  loosyng,  the  formoste  finger  is  moste 
apte,  bycause  it  holdeth  best,  and  for  that  purpose  nature 
hath  as  a  man  woulde  saye,  yocked  it  with  the  thumbe. 
Lether,  if  it  be  nexte  a  mans  skynne,  wyl  sweat,  waxe  hard 
and  chafe,  therefore  scarlet  for  the  softnes  of  it  and  thick- 
nesse  wyth  all  is  good  to  sewe  wythin  a  mannes  glove.  If 
that  wylle  not  serve,  but  yet  youre  finger  hurteth,  you  muste 
take  a  searynge  cloth  made  of  fine  virgin  waxe,  and  Deer's 
sewet,  and  put  nexte  your  fynger,  and  so  on  wyth  youre 
glove.     If  yet  you  fele  your  fynger  pinched,  leave  shootyng 


3o  ROGER   ASCHAM 

both  because  then  you  shall  shoote  nought,  and  agayn  by 
litle  and  lytle  hurtynge  your  finger,  ye  shall  make  it  longe 
and  longer  before  you  shoot  agayne.  A  newe  glove  pluckes 
many  shootes  bycause  the  stringe  goeth  not  freelye  off,  and 
therefore  the  fingers  muste  be  cut  shorte,  and  trimmed  with 
some  ointment,  that  the  string  maye  glyde  wel  awaye.  Some 
wyth  holdynge  in  the  nocke  of  theyr  shafte  too  harde,  rub 
the  skyn  off  there  fingers.  For  this  there  be.  ii.  remedyes, 
one  to  have  a  goose  quyll  splettyd  and  sewed  againste  the 
nockynge,  betwixt  the  lining  and  the  lether,  whyche  shall 
helpe  the  shoote  muche  to,  the  other  waye  is  to  have  some 
roule  of  lether  sewed  betwixt  his  fingers  at  the  setting  on  of 
the  fingers,  which  shall  kepe  his  fingers  so  in  sunder,  that 
they  shal  not  hold  the  nock  so  fast  as  they  did.  The  shoot- 
yng  glove  hath  a  purse  whych  shall  serve  to  put  fine  linen 
cloth  and  wax  in,  twoo  necessary  thynges  for  a  shooter, 
some  men  use  gloves  or  other  suche  lyke  thyng  on  their 
bow  hand  for  chafyng,  because  they  houlde  so  harde.  But 
that  commeth  commonlye,  when  a  bowe  is  not  rounde,  but 
somewhat  square,  fine  waxe  shall  do  verye  well  in  such  a 
case  to  laye  where  a  man  holdeth  his  bow :  and  thus  muche 
as  concernynge  your  glove.  And  these  thynges  althoughe 
they  be  trifles,  yet  bycause  you  be  but  a  yonge  shoter,  I 
woulde  not  leve  them  out. 

Phi.  And  so  you  shal  do  me  moost  pleasure :  The  string 
I  trow  be  the  next. 

Tox.  The  nexte  in  dede.  A  thing  though  it  be  lytle,  yet 
not  a  litle  to  be  regarded.  But  here  in  you  muste  be  con- 
tente  to  put  youre  truste  in  honest  stringers.  And  surely 
stringers  ought  more  diligently  to  be  looked  upon  by  the 
officers  than  ether  bower  or  fletcher,  bycause  they  may  de- 
ceyve  a  simple  man  the  more  easelyer.  An  ill  stringe  brek- 
ethe  many  a  good  bowe,  nor  no  other  thynge  halfe  so  many. 
In  warre  if  a  string  breke  the  man  is  loste  and  is  no  man, 
for  his  weapon  is  gone,  and  althoughe  he  have  two  stringes 
put  one  at  once,  yet  he  shall  have  small  leasure  and  lesse 
roome  to  bend  his  bow,  therfore  God  send  us  good  stringers 
both  for  war  and  peace.  Now  what  a  stringe  ought  to  be 
made  on,  whether  of  good  hempe  as  they  do  now  a  dayes, 
or  of  flaxe  or  of  silke,  I  leave  that  to  the  jugemente  of 


THE   SCHOOLE   OF   SHOOTYNGE  31 

stringers,  of  whome  we  muste  bye  them  on.  Eustathius  apon 
this  verse  of  Homere, 

Twang  quoth  the  bow,  and  twang  quoth  the  string, 
out  quicklie  the  shaft  flue. 

doeth  tel,  that  in  oulde  tyme  they  made  theyr  bowe  strynges 
of  bullox  thermes,  whiche  they  twyned  togither  as  they  do 
ropes,  and  therfore  they  made  a  great  twange.  Bowe 
strnyges  also  hath  bene  made  of  the  hare  of  an  horse  tayle 
called  for  the  matter  of  them  Hippias  as  dothe  appeare  in 
manye  good  authors  of  the  Greke  tongue.  Great  stringes, 
and  lytle  strynges  be  for  diverse  purposes:  the  great  string 
is  more  surer  for  the  bowe,  more  stable  to  pricke  wythal, 
but  slower  for  the  cast,  the  lytle  stringe  is  cleane  contrarye, 
not  so  sure,  therfore  to  be  taken  hede  of,  lest  with  longe 
tarrying  on,  it  breake  your  bowe,  more  fit  to  shoote  farre, 
than  apte  to  pricke  nere,  therfore  when  you  knowe  the  na- 
ture of  bothe  bigge  and  lytle  you  must  fit  your  bow,  accord- 
ing to  the  occasion  of  your  shootinge.  In  stringinge  of  your 
bow  (though  this  place  belong  rather  to  the  handlyng  than 
to  the  thyng  it  selfe,  yet  bycause  the  thynge,  and  the  hand- 
lynge  of  the  thynge,  be  so  joyned  together,  I  must  nede 
some  tyme  couple  the  one  wyth  the  other),  you  must  mark 
the  fit  length  of  your  bowe.  For  yf  the  stringe  be  too  short, 
the  bending  wyll  gyve,  and  at  the  last  slyp  and  so  put  the 
bowe  in  jeopardye.  Yf  it  be  longe,  the  bendynge  must 
nedes  be  in  the  small  of  the  string,  which  beinge  sore  twined 
must  nedes  snap  in  sunder  to  ye  distruction  of  manye  good 
bowes.  Moreover  you  must  looke  that  youre  bowe  be  well 
nocked  for  fere  the  sharpnesse  of  the  home  shere  a  sunder 
the  strynge.  And  that  chaunceth  ofte  when  in  bending, 
the  string  hath  but  one  wap  to  strengthe  it  wyth  all :  You 
must  marke  also  to  set  youre  stringe  streygte  on,  or  elles 
the  one  ende  shall  wriethe  contrary  to  the  other,  and  so 
breake  your  bowe.  When  the  stringe  begynnethe  never  so 
lytle  to  weare,  trust  it  not,  but  a  waye  with  it  for  it  is  an 
y\\  saved  penny  that  costes  a  man  a  crowne.  Thus  you  see 
howe  many  jeopardyes  hangeth  over  the  poore  bowe,  by 
reason  onlye  of  the  strynge.  As  when  the  stringe  is  shorte, 
when  it  is  longe,  when  eyther  of  the  nockes  be  nought,  when 
it  hath  but  one  wap,  and  when  it  taryeth  over  longe  on. 


32  ROGER  ASCHAM 

Phi.  I  see  well  it  is  no  mervell  that  so  many  bowes  be 
broken. 

Tox.  Bowes  be  broken  twice  as  many  wayes  besyde  these. 
But  agayne  in  stringynge  youre  bowe,  you  must  looke  for 
muche  bende  or  lytle  bende,  for  they  be  cleane  contrarye. 

The  lytle  bende  hath  but  one  commoditie,  whyche  is  in 
shootyng  faster  and  farther  shoote,  and  ye  cause  therof  is, 
bycause  the  strynge  hath  so  far  a  passage,  or  it  parte  wyth 
the  shafte.  The  greate  bende  hath  many  commodities :  for 
it  maketh  easyer  shootynge  the  bowe  beyng  halfe  drawen 
afore.  It  needeth  no  bracer,  for  the  strynge  stoppeth  be- 
fore it  come  at  the  arme.  It  wyl  not  so  soone  hit  a  mannes 
sieve  or  other  geare,  by  the  same  reason :  It  hurteth  not  the 
shaft  fether,  as  the  lowe  bende  doeth.  It  suffereth  a  man 
better  to  espye  his  marke.  Therfore  lette  youre  bowe  have 
good  byg  bend,  a  shaftemente  and.  ii.  fyngers  at  the  least, 
for  these  which  I  have  spoken  of. 

Phi.  The  bracer,  glove,  and  strynge,  be  done,  nowe  you 
muste  come  to  the  bowe,  the  chefe  instrument  of  all. 

Tox.  Dyvers  countryes  and  tymes  have  used  alwayes 
dyvers  bowes,  and  of  dyvers  fashions. 

Home  bowes  are  used  in  some  places  nowe,  and  were 
used  also  in  Homers  dayes,  for  Pandarus  bowe,  the  best 
shooter  among  al  the  Trojanes,  was  made  of  two  Goate 
homes  joyned  togyther,  the  lengthe  wherof  sayth  Homer, 
was  xvi.  handbredes,  not  far  differing  from  the  lengthe  of 
our  bowes. 

Scripture  maketh  mention  of  brasse  bowes.  Iron  bowes, 
and  style  bowes,  have  been  of  longe  tyme,  and  also  nowe 
are  used  among  the  Turkes,  but  yet  they  must  nedes  be 
unprofitable.  For  yf  brasse,  iron  or  style,  have  theyr  owne 
strength  and  pith  in  them,  they  be  farre  above  mannes 
strength:  yf  they  be  made  meete  for  mannes  strengthe, 
theyr  pithe  is  nothyng  worth  to  shoote  any  shoote  wyth  all. 

The  Ethiopians  had  bowes  of  palme  tree,  whiche  seemed 
to  be  very  stronge,  but  we  have  none  experience  of  them. 
The  lengthe  of  them  was  iiii.  cubites.  The  men  of  Inde 
had  theyr  bowes  made  of  a  rede,  whiche  was  of  a  great 
strengthe.  And  no  marvayle  though  bowe  and  shaftes  were 
made  thereof,  for  the  redes  be  so  great  in  Inde,  as  Herodo- 


THE   SCHOOLE   OF   SHOOTYNGE  33 

tus  sayth,  that  of  every  joynte  of  a  rede,  a  man  may  make  a 
fyshers  bote.  These  bowes,  sayeth  Arrianus  in  Alexanders 
lyfe,  gave  so  great  a  stroke,  that  no  harness  or  buckler 
though  it  were  never  so  strong,  could  wythstand  it.  The 
length  of  such  a  bowe,  was  even  wyth  the  length  of  h)Tm 
that  used  it.  The  Lycians  used  bowes  made  of  a  tree,  called 
in  Latyn  Cornus,  (as  concernyng  the  name  of  it  in  English, 
I  can  sooner  prove  that  other  men  call  it  false,  than  I  can 
tell  the  right  name  of  it  my  selfe)  this  wood  is  as  harde  as 
home  and  very  fit  for  shaftes,  as  shall  be  toulde  after. 

Ovid  sheweth  that  Syringa  the  Nymphe,  and  one  of  the 
maydens  of  Diana,  had  a  bowe  of  this  wood  whereby  the 
poete  meaneth,  that  it  was  verye  excellent  to  make  bowes  of. 

As  for  brasell,  Elme,  Wych,  and  Asshe,  experience  doth 
prove  them  to  be  but  meane  for  bowes,  and  so  to  conclude, 
Ewe  of  all  other  thynges,  is  that,  wherof  perfite  shootjng 
woulde  have  a  bowe  made. 

Thys  woode  as  it  is  nowe  generall  and  common  amonges 
Englyshe  men,  so  hath  it  continewed  from  longe  tyme  and 
had  in  moost  price  for  bowes,  amonges  the  Romaynes,  as 
doth  apere  in  this  verse  of  Vyrgill. 

Ewe  fit  for  a  bowe  to  be  made  on. 

Nowe  as  I  saye,  a  bowe  of  Ewe  must  be  hadde  for  per- 
fecte  shootinge  at  the  prickes ;  whiche  marke,  bycause  it  is 
certayne,  and  moste  certaine  rules  may  be  gyven  of  it,  shall 
serve  for  our  communication,  at  this  time.  A  good  bowe 
is  knowen,  much  what  as  good  counsayle  is  knowen,  by  the 
ende  and  proofe  of  it,  and  yet  bothe  a  bowe  and  good  coun- 
sell  maye  be  made  bothe  better  and  worse,  by  well  or  ill 
handlynge  of  them:  as  oftentymes  chaunceth.  And  as  a 
man  both  muste  and  wyll  take  counsell,  of  a  wyse  and  hon- 
este  man,  though  he  se  not  the  ende  of  it,  so  must  a  shooter 
of  necessitie,  truste  an  honest  and  good  bowyer  for  a  bowe, 
afore  he  knowe  the  proofe  of  it.  And  as  a  wise  man  wyll 
take  plent)re  of  counsel  afore  hand  what  soever  need,  so  a 
shooter  shulde  have  alwayes.  iii.  or.  iiii.  bowes,  in  store, 
what  so  ever  chaunce. 

Phi.  But  if  I  truste  bowyers  alwayes,  sometyme  I  am  lyke 
to  be  deceyved. 
3 


34  ROGER   ASCHAM 

Tox.  Therefore  shall  I  tell  you  some  tokens  in  a  bowe, 
that  you  shal  be  the  seeldomer  deceyved.  If  you  come  into 
a  shoppe,  and  fynde  a  bowe  that  is  small,  long,  heavy  and 
strong-,  lyinge  st[r]eyght,  not  windyng,  not  marred  with 
knot,  gaule,  wyndeshake,  wem,  freate  or  pynche,  bye  that 
bowe  of  my  warrant.  The  beste  colour  of  a  bowe  yat  I 
fynde,  is  whan  the  backe  and  the  bellye  in  woorkynge,  be 
muche  what  after  one  maner,  for  such  oftentymes  in  wear- 
yng,  do  prove  lyke  virgin  wax  or  golde,  havynge  a  fine 
longe  grayne,  even  from  the  one  ende  of  the  bowe,  to  the 
other :  the  short  graine  although  suche  prove  well  somtyme, 
are  for  ye  most  parte,  very  brittle.  Of  the  makynge  of  the 
bowe,  I  wyll  not  greatly  meddle,  leste  I  shoulde  seeme  to 
enter  into  an  other  mannes  occupation,  whyche  I  can  no 
skyll  of.  Yet  I  woulde  desyre  all  bowyers  to  season  theyr 
staves  well,  to  woorke  them  and  synke  them  well,  to  give 
them  heetes  convenient,  and  tyllerynges  plentye.  For 
thereby  they  shoulde  bothe  get  them  selves  a  good  name, 
(And  a  good  name  encreaseth  a  mannes  profyte  muche)  and 
also  do  greate  commodite  to  the  hole  Realme.  If  any  men 
do  offend  in  this  poynte,  I  am  afrayde  they  be  those  journy 
men  whiche  labour  more  spedily  to  make  manye  bowes  for 
theyr  owne  monye  sake,  than  they  woorke  diligently  to  make 
good  bowes,  for  the  common  welth  sake,  not  layinge  before 
theyr  eyes,  thys  wyfe  proverbe. 

Soone  ynough,  if  wel  ynough. 

Wherwyth  evere  honest  handye  craftes  man  shuld  meas- 
ure, as  it  were  wyth  a  rule,  his  worke  withal.  He  that  is  a 
journey  man,  and  r3Tdeth  upon  an  other  mannes  horse,  yf 
he  ryde  an  honest  pace,  no  manne  wyll  dysalowe  hym :  But 
yf  he  make  Poste  haste,  bothe  he  that  owneth  the  horse,  and 
he  peradventure  also  that  afterwarde  shal  bye  the  horse, 
may  chaunce  to  curse  hym. 

Suche  hastinesse  I  am  afrayde,  maye  also  be  found 
amonges  some  of  them,  whych  through  out  ye  Realme  in 
diverse  places  worke  ye  kinges  Artillarie  for  war,  thinkynge 
yf  they  get  a  bowe  or  a  sheafe  of  arrowes  to  some  fashion, 
they  be  good  ynough  for  bearynge  gere.  And  thus  that 
weapon  whiche  is  the  chiefe  defence  of  the  Realme,  verye 


THE  SCHOOLE  OF  SHOOTYNGE         35 

ofte  doth  lytle  servyce  to  hym  that  shoulde  use  it,  bycause 
it  is  so  negligentlye  wrought  of  him  that  shuld  make  it, 
when  trewlye  I  suppose  that  nether  ye  bowe  can  be  to  good 
and  chefe  woode,  nor  yet  to  well  seasoned  or  truly  made, 
wyth  hetynges  and  tillerynges,  nether  that  shafte  to  good 
wood  or  to  thorowely  wrought,  with  the  best  pinion  fedders 
that  can  be  gotten,  wherwith  a  man  shal  serve  his  prince, 
defende  his  countrie,  and  save  hym  selfe  frome  his  enemye. 
And  I  trust  no  man  wyll  be  angrye  wyth  me  for  spekynge 
thus,  but  those  which  finde  them  selfe  touched  therin :  which 
ought  rather  to  be  angrye  wyth  them  selfe  for  doynge  so, 
than  to  be  miscontent  wyth  me  for  saynge  so.  And  in  no 
case  they  ought  to  be  displeased  wyth  me,  seeinge  this  is 
spoken  also  after  that  forte,  not  for  the  notynge  of  anye 
person  severallye,  but  for  the  amendynge  of  everye  one 
generallye.  But  turne  we  agayne  to  knowe  a  good  shoot- 
ynge  bowe  for  oure  purpose. 

Everye  bowe  is  made  eyther  of  a  boughe,  of  a  plante  or 
of  the  boole  of  the  tree.  The  boughe  commonlye  is  verye 
knotty,  and  full  of  pinnes,  weake,  of  small  pithe,  and  sone 
wyll  folowe  the  stringe,  and  seldome  werith  to  any  fayre 
coloure,  yet  for  chyldren  and  yonge  beginners  it  maye  serve 
well  ynoughe.  The  plante  proveth  many  times  wel,  yf  it  be 
of  a  good  and  clene  groweth,  and  for  the  pith  of  it  is  quicke 
ynoughe  of  cast,  it  wyll  plye  and  bow  far  afore  it  breake,  as 
al  other  yonge  thinges  do.  The  boole  of  ye  tree  is  clenest 
without  knot  or  pin,  havinge  a  faste  and  harde  woode  by 
reasonne  of  hys  full  groweth,  stronge  and  myghtye  of  cast, 
and  best  for  a  bow,  yf  the  staves  be  even  cloven,  and  be 
afterwarde  wroughte  not  over[t]wharte  the  woode,  but  as 
the  graine  and  streyght  growyng  of  the  woode  leadethe  a 
man,  or  elles  by  all  reason  it  must  sone  breake,  and  that  in 
many  shivers.  This  must  be  considered  in  the  roughe 
woode,  and  when  the  bow  staves  be  overwrought  and  fac- 
ioned.  For  in  dressing  and  pikynge  it  up  for  a  bow,  it  is 
to  late  to  loke  for  it.  But  yet  in  these  poyntes  as  I  sayd 
before  you  muste  truste  an  honest  bowyer,  to  put  a  good 
bow  in  youre  hand,  somewhat  lookinge  your  selfe  to  those 
tokens  whyche  I  shewed  you.  And  you  muste  not  sticke 
for  a  grote  or.  xii.  d.  more  than  a  nother  man  would  give  yf 


36  ROGER   ASCHAM 

it  be  a  good  bowe.  For  a  good  bow  twise  paide  for  is  better 
than  an  ill  bowe  once  broken. 

Thus  a  shooter  muste  begyn  not  at  the  makynge  of  hys 
bowe  lyke  a  bower,  but  at  the  byinge  of  hys  bow  lyke  an 
Archere.  And  when  his  bow  is  bought  and  brought  home, 
afore  he  truste  muche  upon  it,  let  hym  trye  and  trym  it  after 
thys  sorte. 

Take  your  bow  in  to  the  feeld,  shote  in  hym,  sinke  hym 
wyth  deade  heavye  shaftes,  looke  where  he  commethe  moost, 
provyde  for  that  place  betymes,  leste  it  pinche  and  so  f reate ; 
when  you  have  thus  shot  in  him,  and  perceyved  good  shoot- 
ynge  woode  in  hym,  you  must  have  hym  agayne  to  a  good 
cunnynge,  and  trustie  woorkeman,  whyche  shall  cut  hym 
shorter,  and  pike  hym  and  dresse  hym  fytter,  make  hym 
comme  rounde  compace  every  where,  and  whippyng  at  the 
endes,  but  with  discretion,  lest  he  whyp  in  sunder  or  els 
freete,  soner  than  he  is  ware  of,  he  must  also  lay  hym  streght, 
if  he  be  caste  or  otherwise  nede  require,  and  if  he  be  flatte 
made,  gather  hym  rounde,  and  so  shall  he  bothe  shoote  the 
faster,  for  farre  shootynge,  and  also  the  surer  for  nere 
pryckynge. 

Phi.  What  yf  I  come  into  a  shoppe,  and  spye  oute  a  bow, 
which  shal  both  than  please  me  very  wel  whan  I  by  him, 
and  be  also  very  fit  and  meete  for  me  whan  I  shoote  in 
hym :  so  that  he  be  both  weake  ynoughe  for  easye  shoot- 
ynge, and  also  quycke  and  spedye  ynoughe  for  farre  cast- 
ynge,  than  I  woulde  thynke  I  shall  nede  no  more  businesse 
wyth  him,  but  be  contente  wyth  hym,  and  use  hym  well 
ynoughe,  and  so  by  that  meanes,  avoyde  bothe  greate  trou- 
ble, and  also  some  cost  whiche  you  cunnynge  archers  very 
often  put  your  selves  unto,  beynge  verye  Englyshe  men, 
never  ceasynge  piddelynge  about  your  bowe  and  shaftes 
whan  they  be  well,  but  eyther  with  shortyng  and  pikynge 
your  bowes,  or  els  with  newe  fetheryng,  peecynge  and  head- 
inge  your  shaftes,  can  never  have  done  untyll  they  be  starke 
nought. 

Tox.  Wel  Philologe,  surelyeif  I  have  any  judgement  at  all 
in  shootyng,  it  is  no  very  great  good  token  in  a  bowe,  where- 
of nothyng  whan  it  is  newe  and  f resshe,  nede  be  cutte  away, 
even  as  Cicero  sayeth  of  a  yonge  mannes  wit  and  style, 


THE   SCHOOLE   OF   SHOOTYNGE  37 

which  you  knowe  better  than  I.  For  everye  newe  thynge 
muste  alwayes  have  more  than  it  neadeth,  or  elles  it  wyll 
not  waxe  better  and  better,  but  ever  decaye,  and  be  worse 
and  worse.  Newe  ale  if  it  runne  not  over  the  barrell  whan 
it  is  newe  tunned,  wil  sone  lease  his  pith,  and  his  head  afore 
he  be  longe  drawen  on. 

And  lyke  wyse  as  that  colte  whyche  at  the  fyrste  takynge 
yp,  nedeth  lytle  breakyng  and  handlyng,  but  is  fitte  and 
gentle  ynoughe  for  the  saddle,  seeldome  or  never  proveth 
well,  even  so  that  bowe  whyche  at  the  fyrste  byinge,  wyth- 
out  any  more  proofe  and  trimmynge,  is  fit  and  easie  to 
shoote  in,  shall  neyther  be  profitable  to  laste  longe  nor  yet 
pleasant  to  shoote  well.  And  therfore  as  a  younge  horse 
full  of  corage,  wyth  handlynge  and  breakinge,  is  brought 
unto  a  sure  pace  and  goynge,  so  shall  a  newe  bowe  fresshe 
and  quicke  of  caste,  by  sinkyng  and  cuttyng,  be  brought  to 
a  stedfast  shootyng.  And  an  easie  and  gentle  bow  whan  it 
is  newe,  is  not  much  unlyke  a  softe  spirited  boye  when  he 
is  younge.  But  yet  as  of  an  unrulie  boye  with  right  hand- 
lyng, proveth  of tenest  of  al  a  well  ordered  man ;  so  of  an 
unfit  and  staffysh  bow  with  good  trimming,  muste  nedes 
folowe  alwayes  a  stedfast  shotynge  bowe. 

And  suche  a  perfite  bowe,  whiche  never  wyll  deceyve  a 
man,  excepte  a  man  deceyve  it,  must  be  had  for  that  per- 
fecte  ende,  whyche  you  looke  for  in  shootinge. 

Phi.  Well  Toxophile,  I  see  wel  you  be  cunninger  in  this 
gere  than  I :  but  put  case  that  I  have  thre  or  fower  suche 
good  bowes,  pyked  and  dressed,  as  you  now  speke  of,  yet  I 
do  remembre  yat  manye  learned  men  do  saye,  that  it  is 
easier  to  gette  a  good  thynge,  than  to  save  and  keepe  a  good 
thyng,  wherfore  if  you  can  teache  me  as  concernyng  that 
poynte,  you  have  satisfyed  me  plentifullye  as  concernynge 
a  bowe. 

Tox.  Trulye  it  was  the  nexte  thyng  that  I  woulde  have 
come  unto,  for  so  the  matter  laye. 

Whan  you  have  broughte  youre  bowe  to  suche  a  poynte, 
as  I  spake  of,  than  you  must  have  an  herden  or  wullen  cloth 
waxed,  wherwith  every  day  you  must  rubbe  and  chafe  your 
bowe,  tyll  it  shyne  and  glytter  withall.  Whyche  thynge 
shall  cause  it  bothe  to  be  cleane,  well  favoured,  goodlye  of 


38  ROGER  ASCHAM 

coloure,  and  shall  also  bryng  as  it  were  a  cruste,  over  it,  that 
is  to  say,  shall  make  it  every  where  on  the  outsyde,  so  slyp- 
pery  and  harde,  that  neyther  any  weete  or  wether  can  enter 
to  hurte  it,  nor  yet  any  freat  or  pynche,  be  able  to  byte  upon 
it :  but  that  you  shal  do  it  great  wrong  before  you  breake  it. 
This  must  be  done  oftentimes  but  specially  when  you  come 
from  shootynge. 

Beware  also  whan  you  shoote,  of  youre  shaft  hedes,  dag- 
ger, knyves,  or  agglettes,  lest  they  race  your  bowe,  a  thing 
as  I  sayde  before,  bothe  unsemely  to  looke  on,  and  also  daun- 
gerous  for  freates.  Take  hede  also  of  mistie  and  dan ky she 
dayes,  whiche  shal  hurte  a  bowe,  more  than  any  rayne. 
For  then  you  muste  eyther  alway  rub  it,  or  els  leave  shoot- 
ynge. 

Your  bowecase  (this  I  dyd  not  promise  to  speake  of,  by- 
cause  it  is  without  the  nature  of  shootynge,  or  els  I  shoulde 
truble  me  wyth  other  thinges  infinite  more :  yet  seing  it  is 
a  savegarde  for  the  bowe,  somethynge  I  wyll  saye  of  it) 
youre  bowecase  I  saye,  yf  you  ryde  forth,  muste  neyther  be 
to  wyde  for  youre  bowes,  for  so  shall  one  clap  upon  an  other, 
and  hurt  them,  nor  yet  so  strayte  that  scarse  they  can  be 
thrust  in,  for  that  would  laye  them  on  syde  and  wynde  them. 
A  bowecase  of  ledder,  is  not  the  best,  for  that  is  ofttymes 
moyste  which  hurteth  the  bowes  very  much.  Therfore  I 
have  sene  good  shooters  which  would  have  for  everye  bowe, 
a  sere  case  made  of  wollen  clothe,  and  than  you  maye  putte. 
iii.  or.  iiii.  of  them  so  cased,  into  a  ledder  case  if  you  wyll. 
This  wollen  case  shall  bothe  kepe  them  in  sunder,  and  also 
wylle  kepe  a  bowe  in  his  full  strengthe,  that  it  never  gyve 
for  any  wether.  At  home  these  wood  cases  be  verye  good 
for  bowes  to  stand  in.  But  take  hede  yat  youre  bowe  stande 
not  to  nere  a  stone  wall,  for  that  wyll  make  hym  moyste  and 
weke,  nor  yet  to  nere  any  fier  for  that  wyll  make  him  shorte 
and  brittle.  And  thus  muche  as  concernyng  the  savyng 
and  keping  of  our  bowe ;  nowe  you  shall  heare  what  thynges 
ye  must  avoyde,  for  feare  of  breakyng  your  bowe. 

A  shooter  chaunseth  to  break  his  bowe  commonly,  iiii. 
wayes,  by  the  strynge,  by  the  shafte,  by  drawyng  to  far, 
and  by  freates ;  By  the  stryng  as  I  sayde  afore,  whan  the 
strynge  is  eyther  to  shorte,  to  long,  not  surely  put  on,  wyth 


THE   SCHOOLE    OF   SHOOTYNGE  39 

one  wap,  or  put  croked  on,  or  shorne  in  sundre  wyth  an 
evell  nocke,  or  suffered  to  tarye  over  longe  on.  Whan  the 
stryng  fayles  the  bowe  muste  nedes  breake,  and  specially 
in  the  myddes ;  because  bothe  the  endes  have  nothyng  to 
stop  them ;  but  whippes  so  far  backe,  that  the  belly  must 
nedes  violentlye  rise  up,  the  whyche  you  shall  well  percey ve 
in  bendyng  of  a  bowe  backward.  Therfore  a  bowe  that 
f oloweth  the  strynge  is  least  hurt  with  breakyng  of  strynges. 
By  the  shafte  a  bowe  is  broken  ether  when  it  is  to  short, 
and  so  you  set  it  in  your  bow  or  when  the  nocke  breakes  for 
lytlenesse,  or  when  the  strynge  slyppes  wythoute  the  nocke 
for  wydenesse,  than  you  poule  it  to  your  eare  and  lettes  it  go, 
which  must  nedes  breake  the  shafte  at  the  leaste,  and  putte 
stringe  and  bowe  and  al  in  jeopardy,  by  cause  the  strength  of 
the  bowe  hath  nothynge  in  it  to  stop  the  violence  of  it. 

Thys  kynde  of  breakynge  is  mooste  perilouse  for  the 
standers  by,  for  in  such  a  case  you  shall  se  sometyme  the 
ende  of  a  bow  flye  a  hoole  score  from  a  man,  and  that  moost 
commonly,  as  I  have  marked  oft  the  upper  ende  of  the  bowe. 
The  bowe  is  drawne  to  far.  ii.  ways.  Eyther  when  you 
take  a  longer  shafte  then  your  owne,  or  els  when  you  shyfte 
your  hand  to  low  or  to  hye  for  shootynge  far.  Thys  waye 
pouleth  the  backe  in  sunder,  and  then  the  bowe  fieethe  in 
manye  peces. 

So  when  you  se  a  bowe  broken,  havynge  the  bellye  risen 
up  both  wayes  or  tone,  the  stringe  brake  it.  When  it  is 
broken  in  twoo  peces  in  a  maner  even  of  and  specyallye  in 
the  upper  ende,  the  shafte  nocke  brake  it. 

When  the  backe  is  pouled  a  sunder  in  manye  peeces  to 
farre  drawynge,  brake  it. 

These  tokens  eyther  alwayes  be  trewe  or  els  verye  seldome 
mysse. 

The  fourthe  thyng  that  breketh  a  bow  is  fretes,  whych 
make  a  bowe  redye  and  apte  to  breake  by  any  of  the.  iii. 
wayes  afore  sayde.  Freetes  be  in  a  shaft  as  well  as  in  a 
bowe,  and  they  be  muche  lyke  a  Canker,  crepynge  and  en- 
creasynge  in  those  places  in  a  bowe,  whyche  be  weaker  then 
other.  And  for  thys  purpose  must  your  bowe  be  well 
trymmed  and  piked  of  a  conning  man  that  it  may  come 
rounde  in  trew  compasse  every  where.      For  freetes  you 


40  ROGER  ASCHAM 

must  beware,  yf  youre  bow  have  a  knot  in  the  backe,  lest 
the  places  whyche  be  nexte  it,  be  not  alowed  strong  ynoughe 
to  bere  with  the  knotte,  or  elles  the  stronge  knotte  shall 
freate  the  weake  places  nexte  it.  Freates  be  fyrst  litle 
pinchese,  the  whych  when  you  perceave,  pike  the  places 
about  the  pinches,  to  make  them  somewhat  weker,  and  as 
well  commynge  as  where  it  pinched,  and  so  the  pinches  shall 
dye,  and  never  encrease  farther  in  to  great  freates. 

Freates  begynne  many  tymes  in  a  pin,  for  there  the  good 
woode  is  corrupted,  that  it  muste  nedes  be  weke,  and  by- 
cause  it  is  weake,  therfore  it  freates. 

Good  bowyers  therfore  do  rayse  every  pyn  and  alowe  it 
moore  woode  for  feare  of  freatynge. 

Agayne  bowes  moost  commonlye  freate  under  the  hande, 
not  so  much  as  some  men  suppose  for  the  moistnesse  of  the 
hande,  as  for  the  heete  of  the  hand:  the  nature  of  heate 
sayeth  Aristotle  is  to  lowse,  and  not  to  knyt  fast,  and  the 
more  lowser  the  more  weaker,  the  weaker,  the  redier  to  freate. 

A  bowe  is  not  well  made,  whych  hath  not  wood  plentye 
in  the  hande.  For  yf  the  endes  of  the  bowe  be  staffyshe,  or 
a  mans  hande  any  thynge  hoote  the  bellye  must  nedes  sone 
frete.  Remedie  for  fretes  to  any  purpose  I  never  hard  tell 
of  any,  but  onelye  to  make  the  freated  place  as  stronge  or 
stronger  then  any  other.  To  fill  up  the  freate  with  lytle 
shevers  of  a  quill  and  glewe  (as  some  say  wyll  do  wel)  by 
reason  must  be  starke  nought. 

For,  put  case  the  freete  dyd  cease  then,  yet  the  cause 
which  made  it  freate  a  fore  (and  that  is  weakenesse  of  the 
place)  bicause  it  is  not  taken  away  must  nedes  make  it 
freate  agayne.  As  for  cuttyng  out  of  freates  wythe  all 
maner  of  pecynge  of  bowes  I  wyll  cleane  exclude  from  per- 
fite  shoot)rnge.  For  peced  bowes  be  muche  lyke  owlde 
housen,  whyche  be  more  chargeable  to  repayre,  than  com- 
modiouse  to  dwell  in.  Agayne  to  swadle  a  bowe  much  about 
wyth  bandes,  verye  seldome  dothe  anye  good,  excepte  it  be 
to  kepe  downe  a  spel  in  the  backe,  otherwyse  bandes  eyther 
nede  not  when  the  bow  is  any  thinge  worthe,  or  els  boote 
not  when  it  is  marde  and  past  best.  And  although  I  knowe 
meane  and  poore  shooters,  wyll  use  peced  and  banded  bowes 
sometyme  bycause  they  are  not  able  to  get  better  when  they 


THE  SCHOOLE  OF  SHOOTYNGE  41 

woulde,  yet  I  am  sure  yf  they  consyder  it  well,  they  shall 
fynde  it,  bothe  lesse  charge  and  more  pleasure  to  ware  at 
any  tyme  a  couple  of  shyllynges  of  a  new  bowe  than  to 
bestowe.  x.  d.  of  peacynge  an  olde  bowe.  For  better  is 
coste  upon  somewhat  worth,  than  spence  upon  nothing 
worth.  And  thys  I  speke  also  bycause  you  woulde  have 
me  referred  all  to  perfitnesse  in  shootynge. 

Moreover  there  is  an  other  thynge,  whyche  wyl  sone  cause 
a  bowe  be  broken  by  one  of  the.  iii.  wayes  whych  be  first 
spoken  of,  and  that  is  shotyng  in  winter,  when  there  is  any 
froste.  Froste  is  wheresoever  is  any  waterish  humour,  as 
is  in  al  woodes,  eyther  more  or  lesse,  and  you  knowe  that 
all  thynges  frosen  and  Isie,  wyl  rather  breke  than  bende. 
Yet  if  a  man  must  nedes  shoote  at  any  such  tyme,  lette  hym 
take  hys  bowe,  and  brynge  it  to  the  fyer,  and  there  by  litle 
and  litle,  rubbe  and  chafe  it  with  a  waxed  clothe,  which  shall 
bring  it  to  that  poynt,  yat  he  maye  shote  safelye  ynough  in 
it.  This  rubbyng  with  waxe,  as  I  sayde  before,  is  a  great 
succour,  agaynst  all  wete  and  moystnesse. 

In  the  fyeldes  also,  in  goyng  betwyxt  the  pricks  eyther 
wyth  your  hande,  or  elles  wyth  a  clothe  you  muste  keepe 
your  bowe  in  such  a  temper.  And  thus  muche  as  concern- 
ynge  youre  bowe,  howe  fyrste  to  knowe  what  wood  is  best 
for  a  bowe,  then  to  chose  a  bowe,  after  to  trim  a  bowe, 
agayne  to  keepe  it  in  goodnesse,  laste  of  al,  how  to  save  it 
from  al  harm  and  evylnesse. 

And  although  many  men  can  saye  more  of  a  bow  yet  I 
trust  these  thynges  be  true,  and  almost  sufficient  for  the 
knowlege  of  a  perfecte  bowe. 

Phi.  Surelye  I  beleve  so,  and  yet  I  coulde  have  hearde 
you  talke  longer  on  it :  althogh  I  can  not  se,  what  maye  be 
sayd  more  of  it.  Therfore  excepte  you  wyll  pause  a  whyle, 
you  may  go  forwarde  to  a  shafte. 

Tox.  What  shaftes  were  made  of,  in  oulde  tyme  authours 
do  not  so  manifestlye  shewe,  as  of  bowes.  Herodotus  doth 
tel,  that  in  the  flood  of  Nilus,  ther  was  a  beast,  called  a 
water  horse,  of  whose  skinne  after  it  was  dried,  the  Egyp- 
tians made  shaftes,  and  dartes  on.  The  tree  called  Cornus 
was  so  common  to  make  shaftes  of,  that  in  good  authours  of 
ye  latyn  tongue,  Cornus  is  taken  for  a  shafte. 


42  ROGER   ASCHAM 

Yet  of  all  thynges  that  ever  I  warked  of  olde  authours, 
either  greke  or  latin,  for  shaftes  to  be  made  of,  there  is 
nothing  so  common  as  reedes.  Herodotus  in  describynge 
the  mightie  hoost  of  Xerxes  doth  tell  that  thre  great  contries 
used  shaftes  made  of  a  rede,  the  Aethiopians,  the  Lycians 
(whose  shaftes  lacked  fethers,  where  at  I  marvayle  moste  of 
all)  and  the  men  of  Inde.  The  shaftes  in  Inde  were  verye 
longe,  a  yarde  and  an  halfe,  as  Arrianus  doth  saye,  or  at  the 
least  a  yarde.  as  Q.  Curtius  doth  saye,  and  therfore  they 
gave  ye  greater  strype,  but  yet  bycause  they  were  so  long, 
they  were  the  more  unhansome,  and  lesse  profitable  to  the 
men  of  Inde,  as  Curtius  doeth  tell. 

In  Crete  and  Italie,  they  used  to  have  their  shaftes  of 
rede  also.  The  best  reede  for  shaftes  grewe  in  Inde,  and 
in  Rhenus  a  flood  of  Italy. 

But  bycause  suche  shaftes  be  neyther  easie  for  Englishe 
men  to  get,  and  yf  they  were  gotten  scarse  profitable  for 
them  to  use,  I  wyll  lette  them  passe,  and  speake  of  those 
shaftes  whyche  Englysh  men  at  this  daye  moste  commonly 
do  approve  and  allowe. 

A  shaft  hath  three  principall  partes,  the  stele,  the  fethers, 
and  the  head:    whereof  everye  one  muste  be  severallye 
spoken  of. 
T  Steles  be  made  of  dyverse  woodes.  as. 

Brasell. 

Turkie  wood. 

Fusticke. 

Sugercheste. 

Hardbeame. 

Byrche. 

Asshe. 

Ooke. 

Servis  tree. 

Hulder. 

Blackthorne. 

Beche. 

Elder. 

Aspe. 

Salow. 
These  wooddes  as  they  be  most  commonly  used,  so  they 


THE   SCHOOLE   OF   SHOOTYNGE  43 

be  mooste  fit  to  be  used :  yet  some  one  fytter  then  an  other 
for  divers  mennes  shotinge,  as  shalbe  toulde  afterwarde. 
As  in  this  pointe  as  in  a  bowe  you  muste  truste  an  honest 
fletcher.  Neverthelesse  al  thoughe  I  can  not  teache  you  to 
make  a  bowe  or  a  shafte,  whiche  belongeth  to  a  bowyer  and 
a  fletcher  to  comme  to  theyr  lyvyng,  yet  wyll  I  shewe  you 
some  tokens  to  knowe  a  bowe  and  a  shafte,  whiche  pertayn- 
eth  to  an  Archer  to  come  to  good  shootynge. 

A  stele  muste  be  well  seasoned  for  Castinge,  and  it  must 
be  made  as  the  grayne  lieth  and  as  it  groweth  or  els  it 
wyl  never  flye  clene,  as  clothe  cut  overtwhart  and  agaynste 
the  wulle,  can  never  hoose  a  manne  cleane.  A  knottye  stele 
maye  be  suffered  in  a  bygge  shafte,  but  for  a  lytle  shafte  it 
is  nothynge  fit,  bothe  bycause  it  wyll  never  flye  far,  and 
besydes  that  it  is  ever  in  danger  of  breakynge,  it  flieth  not 
far  bycause  the  strengthe  of  the  shoote  is  hindred  and 
stopped  at  the  knotte,  even  as  a  stone  cast  in  to  a  plaine 
even  stil  water,  wyll  make  the  water  move  a  greate  space, 
yet  yf  there  be  any  whirlynge  plat  in  the  water,  the  mov- 
ynge  ceasethe  when  it  commethe  at  the  whyrlynge  plat, 
whyche  is  not  muche  unlyke  a  knotte  in  a  shafte  yf  it  be 
considered  wel.  So  every  thyng  as  it  is  plaine  and  streight 
of  hys  owne  nature  so  is  it  fittest  for  far  movynge.  Ther- 
fore  a  stele  whyche  is  harde  to  stande  in  a  bowe,  without 
knotte,  and  streighte  (I  meane  not  artificiallye  streyghte  as 
the  fletcher  dothe  make  it,  but  naturally  streight  as  it  grow- 
eth in  the  wood)  is  best  to  make  a  shaft  of,  eyther  to  go 
cleane,  fly  far  or  stand  surely  in  any  wedder.  Now  howe 
big,  how  small,  how  hevye,  how  lyght,  how  longe,  how 
short,  a  shafte  shoulde  be  particularlye  for  everye  man 
(seynge  we  must  taulke  of  the  generall  nature  of  shootyng) 
can  not  be  toulde  no  more  than  you  Rhethoricians  can  ap- 
poynt  any  one  kynde  of  wordes,  of  sentences,  of  fygures 
fyt  for  every  matter,  but  even  as  the  man  and  the  matter 
requyreth  so  the  fyttest  to  be  used.  Therfore  as  concern- 
ynge  those  contraryes  in  a  shafte,  every  man  muste  avoyde 
them  and  draw  to  the  meane  of  them,  whyche  meane  is  best 
in  al  thynges.  Yet  yf  a  man  happen  to  offende  in  any  of 
the  extremes  it  is  better  to  offend  in  want  and  scantnesse, 
than  in  to  muche  and  outragiouse  exceedynge.     As  it  is 


44  ROGER  ASCHAM 

better  to  have  a  shafte  a  lytle  to  shorte  than  over  longe, 
somewhat  to  lyght,  than  over  lumpysshe,  a  lytle  to  small, 
than  a  greate  deale  to  big,  whiche  thyng  is  not  onely  trewlye 
sayde  in  shootynge,  but  in  all  other  thynges  that  ever  man 
goeth  aboute,  as  in  eatynge,  taulkynge,  and  all  other  thynges 
lyke,  whych  matter  was  onse  excellentlye  disputed  upon,  in 
the  Scooles,  you  knowe  when. 

And  to  offend,  in  these  contraryes  commeth  much  yf 
men  take  not  hede,  throughe  the  kynd  of  wood,  wherof  the 
shaft  is  made :  Ffor  some  wood  belonges  to  ye  excedyng 
part,  some  to  ye  scant  part,  some  to  ye  meane,  as  Brasell, 
Turkiewood,  Fusticke,  Sugar  cheste,  and  such  lyke,  made 
deade,  hevy  lumpish,  hobblyng  shaftes.  Againe  Hulder, 
black  thorne,  Serves  tree,  Beche,  Elder,  Aspe,  and  Salowe, 
eyther  for  theyr  wekenes  or  lyghtenesse,  make  holow,  start- 
ing, studding,  gaddynge  shaftes.  But  Birche,  Hardbeme, 
some  Ooke,  and  some  Asshe,  beynge  bothe  stronge  ynoughe 
to  stande  in  a  bowe,  and  also  lyght  ynoughe  to  flye  far,  are 
best  for  a  meane,  whiche  is  to  be  foughte  oute  in  every 
thinge.  And  althoughe  I  knowe  that  some  men  shoote  so 
stronge,  that  the  deade  woodes  be  lyghte  ynoughe  for  them, 
and  other  some  so  weeke,  that  the  lowse  woodes  be  lykewyse 
for  them  bigge  ynoughe  yet  generally  for  the  moost  parte 
of  men,  the  meane  is  the  best.  And  so  to  conclude  that,  is 
alwayes  beste  for  a  man,  whiche  is  metest  for  him.  Thus 
no  wood  of  his  owne  nature,  is  eyther  to  lyght  or  to  hevy, 
but  as  the  shooter  is  him  selfe  whyche  dothe  use  it.  For 
that  shafte  whiche  one  yeare  for  a  man  is  to  lyghte  and 
scuddinge,  for  the  same  selfe  man  the  next  yeare  may 
chaunce  be  to  hevy  and  hobblynge.  Therfore  can  not  I  ex- 
presse,  excepte  generally,  what  is  best  wood  for  a  shaft,  but 
let  every  man  when  he  knoweth  his  owne  strength  and  the 
nature  of  every  wood,  provyde  and  fyt  himselfe  thereafter. 
Yet  as  concerning  sheaffe  Arrouse  for  war  (as  I  suppose)  it 
were  better  to  make  them  of  good  Asshe,  and  not  of  Aspe, 
as  they  be  now  a  dayes.  For  of  all  other  woodes  that  ever 
I  proved  Asshe  being  big  is  swiftest  and  agayne  hevy  to 
give  a  greate  stripe  with  all,  whyche  Aspe  shall  not  doo. 
What  hevynes  doth  in  a  stripe  every  man  by  experience  can 
tell,  therfore  Asshe  being  both  swyfter  and  hevier  is  more 


THE   SCHOOLE   OP   SHOOTYNGE  45 

fit  for  sheafe  Arroes  than  Aspe,  and  thus  much  for  the  best 
wood  for  shaftes. 

Agayne  lykewyse  as  no  one  wood  can  be  greatlye  meet 
for  all  kynde  of  shaftes,  no  more  can  one  facion  of  the  stele 
be  fit  for  every  shooter.  For  those  that  be  lytle  brested  and 
big  toward  the  hede  called  by  theyr  lykenesse  taperfashion, 
reshe  growne,  and  of  some  merrye  fellowes  bobtayles,  be  fit 
for  them  whiche  shote  under  hande  bycause  they  shoote 
wyth  a  softe  lowse,  and  stresses  not  a  shaft  much  in  the 
breste  where  the  weyghte  of  the  bowe  lyethe  as  you  maye 
perceyve  by  the  werynge  of  every  shafte. 

Agayne  the  bygge  brested  shafte  is  fytte  for  hym,  which 
shoteth  right  afore  him,  or  els  the  brest  being  weke,  shoulde 
never  wythstande  that  strong  piththy  kynde  of  shootynge, 
thus  the  underhande  must  have  a  small  breste,  to  go  cleane 
awaye  oute  of  the  bowe,  the  forehande  muste  have  a  bigge 
breste  to  bere  the  great  myghte  of  the  bowe.  The  shafte 
must  be  made  rounde  nothynge  flat  wyth  out  gal  or  wemme, 
for  thys  purpose.  For  bycause  roundnesse  (whether  you 
take  example  in  heaven  or  in  earthe)  is  fittes  shappe  and 
forme  both  for  fast  moving  and  also  for  sone  percynge  of 
any  thynge.  And  therfore  Aristotle  saythe  that  nature  hath 
made  the  raine  to  be  round,  bycause  it  shoulde  the  easelyer 
enter  throughe  the  ayre. 

The  nocke  of  the  shafte  is  dyversly  made,  for  some  be 
greate  and  full,  some  hansome  and  lytle,  some  wyde,  some 
narow,  some  depe,  some  shalowe,  some  round,  some  longe, 
some  wyth  one  nocke,  some  wyth  a  double  nocke,  wherof 
every  one  hathe  hys  propertye. 

The  greate  and  full  nocke,  maye  be  well  felte,  and  many 
wayes  they  save  a  shafte  from  brekynge.  The  hansome 
and  lytle  nocke  wyll  go  clene  awaye  frome  the  hand,  the 
wyde  nocke  is  noughte,  both  for  breakyng  of  the  shafte 
and  also  for  soden  slyppynge  oute  of  the  strynge  when  the 
narrowe  nocke  doth  avoyde  both  those  harmes.  The  depe 
and  longe  nocke  is  good  in  warre  for  sure  kepyng  in  of  the 
strynge.  The  shalow,  and  rownde  nocke  is  best  for  our 
purpose  in  prickyng  for  cleane  delyveraunce  of  a  shoote. 
And  double  nockyng  is  used  for  double  suerty  of  the  shaft 
And  thus  far  as  concernynge  a  hoole  stele. 


46  ROGER  ASCHAM 

Peecynge  of  a  shafte  with  brasell  and  holie,  or  other  heavy 
woodes,  is  to  make  the  ende  compasse  heavy  with  the  fethers 
in  flying,  for  the  stedfaster  shotyng.  For  if  the  ende  were 
plumpe  heavy  wyth  lead  and  the  wood  nexte  it  lyghte,  the 
head  ende  woulde  ever  be  downwardes,  and  never  flye 
stray  ght. 

Two  poyntes  in  peecing  be  ynough,  lest  the  moystnes  of 
the  earthe  enter  to  moche  into  the  peecinge,  and  so  leuse 
the  glue.  Therefore  many  poyntes  be  more  pleasaunt  to  the 
eye,  than  profitable  for  the  use. 

Summe  use  to  peece  theyr  shaftes  in  the  nocke  wyth 
brasel,  or  holye,  to  counterwey,  with  the  head,  and  I  have 
sene  summe  for  the  same  purpose,  bore  an  hole  a  lytle  bineth 
the  nocke,  and  put  leade  in  it.  But  yet  none  of  these  wayes 
be  anye  thing  needful  at  al,  for  ye  nature  of  a  fether  in 
flying,  if  a  man  marke  it  well,  is  able  to  bear  up  a  wonderful 
weyght:  and  I  thinke  suche  peecing  came  up  first,  thus: 
whan  a  good  Archer  hath  broken  a  good  shafte,  in  the 
fethers,  and  for  the  fantasie  he  hath  had  to  it,  he  is  lothe  to 
leese  it,  and  therfore  doeth  he  peece  it.  And  than  by  and 
by  other  eyther  bycause  it  is  gaye,  or  elles  because  they 
wyll  have  a  shafte  lyke  a  good  archer,  cutteth  theyre  hole 
shaftes,  and  peeceth  them  agayne :  A  thynge  by  my  judge- 
ment, more  costlye  than  nedefull. 

And  thus  have  you  heard  what  wood,  what  fasshion,  what 
nockynge,  what  peecynge  a  stele  muste  have.  Nowe  folow- 
eth  the  fetherynge. 

Phi.  I  woulde  never  have  thought  you  could  have  sayd 
halfe  so  muche  of  a  stele,  and  I  thynke  as  concernyng  the 
litle  fether  and  the  playne  head,  there  is  but  lytle  to  saye. 

Tox.  Lytle,  yes  trulye :  for  there  is  no  one  thing,  in  al 
shoting,  so  moche  to  be  loked  on  as  the  fether.  For  fyrste 
a  question  maye  be  asked,  whether  any  other  thing  besyde  a 
fether,  be  fit  for  a  shaft  or  no?  if  a  fether  onelye  be  fit, 
whether  a  goofe  fether  onely,  or  no?  yf  a  goofe  fether  be 
best,  then  whether  there  be  any  difference,  as  concernynge 
the  fether  of  an  oulde  goose,  and  a  yonge  goose :  a  gander, 
or  a  goose :  a  fennye  goose,  or  a  uplandish  goose.  Againe 
which  is  best  fether  in  any  goose,  the  ryght  wing  or  the  left 
wing,  the  pinion  fether,  or  any  other  fether :  a  whyte,  blacke, 


THE   SCHOOLE   OF   SHOOTYNGE  47 

or  greye  f ether?  Thirdly,  in  settyng  on  of  your  f ether, 
whether  it  be  pared  or  drawen  with  a  thicke  rybbe,  or  a 
thinne  rybbe  (the  rybbe  is  ye  hard  quill  whiche  devydeth 
the  fether)  a  long  fether  better  or  a  shorte,  set  on  nere  the 
nocke,  or  farre  from  the  nocke,  set  on  streight,  or  some 
what  bowyng?  and  whether  one  or  two  f ethers  runne  on  the 
bowe.  Fourthly  in  couling  or  sheryng,  whether  high  or 
lowe,  whether  somewhat  swine  backed  (I  muste  use  shoters 
wordes)  or  sadle  backed,  whether  rounde,  or  square  shorne? 
And  whether  a  shaft  at  any  tyme  ought  to  be  plucked,  and 
how  to  be  plucked. 

Phi.  Surely  Toxophile,  I  thynke  manye  fletchers  (al- 
though daylye  they  have  these  thinges  in  use)  if  they  were 
asked  sodeynly,  what  they  coulde  saye  of  a  fether,  they  could 
not  saye  so  moch.  But  I  praye  you  let  me  heare  you  more 
at  large,  expresse  those  thynges  in  a  fether,  the  whiche  you 
packed  up  in  so  narrowe  a  rowme.  And  fyrst  whether  any 
other  thyng  may  be  used  for  a  fether  or  not. 

Tox.  That  was  ye  fyrste  poynte  in  dede,  and  bycause 
there  foloweth  many  after,  I  wyll  hye  apace  over  them,  as 
one  that  had  manye  a  myle  to  ride.  Shaftes  to  have  had 
alwayes  fethers  Plinius  in  Latin,  and  Julius  Pollux  in  Greke, 
do  playnlye  shewe,  yet  onely  the  Lycians  I  reade  in  Hero- 
dotus to  have  used  shaftes  without  f edders.  Onelye  a  f edder 
is  fit  for  a  shafte  for.  ii.  causes,  fyrste  bycause  it  is  leathe 
weake  to  give  place  to  the  bowe,  then  bycause  it  is  of  that 
nature,  that  it  wyll  starte  up  after  ye  bow.  So,  Plate,  wood 
or  home  can  not  serve,  bycause  the[y]  wil  not  gyve  place. 
Againe,  Cloth,  Paper,  or  Parchment  can  not  serve,  bycause 
they  wyll  not  ryse  after  the  bowe,  therfore  a  fedder  is  onely 
mete,  bycause  it  onelye  wyl  do  bothe.  Nowe  to  looke  on 
the  fedders  of  all  maner  of  birdes,  you  shal  se  some  so  lowe 
weke  and  shorte,  some  so  course,  stoore  and  harde,  and  the 
rib  so  brickie,  thin  and  narrow,  that  it  can  nether  be  drawen, 
pared,  nor  yet  well  set  on,  that  except  it  be  a  swan  for  a 
dead  shafte  (as  I  knowe  some  good  Archers  have  used)  or  a 
ducke  for  a  fiyghte  which  lastes  but  one  shoote,  there  is  no 
fether  but  onelye  of  a  goose  that  hath  all  commodities  in  it. 
And  trewelye  at  a  short  but,  which  some  man  doth  use,  ye 
Pecock  fether  doth  seldome  kepe  up  ye  shaft  eyther  ryght 


48  ROGER  ASCHAM 

or  level,  it  is  so  roughe  and  hevy,  so  that  many  men  which 
have  taken  them  up  for  gayenesse,  hathe  layde  them  downe 
agayne  for  profyte,  thus  for  our  purpose,  the  Goose  is  best 
fether,  for  the  best  shoter. 

Phi.  No  that  is  not  so,  for  the  best  shoter  that  ever  was 
used  other  fethers. 

Tox.  Ye  are  so  cunninge  in  shootynge  I  praye  you  who 
was  that. 

Phi.  Hercules  whyche  had  hys  shaftes  fethered  with  Egles 
fethers  as  Hesiodus  doth  saye. 

Tox.  Well  as  for  Hercules,  seynge  nether  water  nor  lande, 
heaven  nor  hell,  coulde  scarse  contente  hym  to  abyde  in, 
it  was  no  mervell  thoughe  a  sely  poore  goose  fether  could 
not  plese  him  to  shoote  wythal,  and  agayne  as  for  Egles 
they  flye  so  hye  and  builde  so  far  of,  that  they  be  very  hard 
to  come  by.  Yet  welfare  the  gentle  goose  which  bringeth 
to  a  man  even  to  hys  doore  so  manye  excedynge  commodi- 
ties. For  the  goose  is  mans  comforte  in  war  and  in  peace 
slepynge  and  wakynge.  What  prayse  so  ever  is  gyven  to 
shootynge  the  goose  may  chalenge  the  beste  parte  in  it. 
How  well  dothe  she  make  a  man  fare  at  his  table?  Howe 
easelye  dothe  she  make  a  man  lye  in  hys  bed?  How  fit  even 
as  her  fethers  be  onelye  for  shootynge,  so  be  her  quylles 
fytte  onelye  for  wrytyng. 

Philo.  In  deade  Toxophyle  that  is  the  beste  prayse  you 
gave  to  a  goose  yet,  and  surelye  I  would  have  sayde  you  had 
bene  to  blame  yf  you  had  overskypt  it. 

Tox.  The  Romaynes  I  trowe  Philologe  not  so  muche  by- 
cause  a  goose  wyth  cryinge  saved  theyr  Capitolium  and 
head  toure  wyth  their  golden  Jupiter  as  Propertius  doth  say 
very  pretely  in  thys  verse. 

Theves  on  a  night  had  stolne  Iupiter  had  a  goose  not  a  kekede. 
Dyd  make  a  golden  goose  and  set  hir  in  the  top  of  ye  Capi- 
tolium, and  appoynted  also  the  Censores  to  alow  out  of  ye 
common  hutche  yearly  stipendes  for  ye  findinge  of  certayne 
Geese,  ye  Romaynes  did  not  I  saye  give  al  thys  honor  to  a 
goose  for  that  good  dede  onely,  but  for  other  infinit  mo  which 
comme  dayly  to  a  man  byn  Geese,  and  surely  yf  I  should 
declame  in  ye  prayse  of  any  maner  of  beste  lyvyng,  I  would 
chose  a  goose,  But  the  goose  hath  made  us  flee  to  farre  from 


THE   SCHOOLE   OF   SHOOTYNGE  49 

oure  matter.  Nowe  sir  ye  have  hearde  howe  a  fether  must 
be  had,  and  that  a  goose  fether  onely.  It  foloweth  of  a 
yong  goose  and  an  oulde,  and  the  residue  belonging  to  a 
fether :  which  thing  I  wyll  shortlye  course  over :  wherof,  when 
you  knowe  the  properties,  you  maye  fitte  your  shaf tes  accord- 
yng  to  your  shotyng,  which  rule  you  must  observe  in  all  other 
thynges  too,  bycause  no  one  fashion  or  quantitie  can  be 
fitte  for  every  man,  no  more  than  a  shooe  or  a  cote  can  be. 
The  oulde  goose  fether  is  styffe  and  stronge,  good  for  a 
wynde,  and  fyttest  for  a  dead  shaft :  the  yonge  goose  fether 
is  weake  and  fyne,  best  for  a  swyfte  shaft,  and  it  must  be 
couled  at  the  first  shering,  somewhat  hye,  for  with  shoting, 
it  wyll  sattle  and  faule  very  moche.  The  same  thing  (al- 
though not  so  moche)  is  to  be  consydered  in  a  goose  and  a 
gander.  A  fenny  goose,  even  as  her  flesh  is  blacker,  stoorer, 
unholsomer,  so  is  her  fether  for  the  same  cause  courser 
stoorer  and  rougher,  and  therfore  I  have  heard  very  good 
fletchers  saye,  that  the  seconde  fether  in  some  place  is  better 
then  the  pinion  in  other  some.  Betwixt  the  winges  is  lytle 
difference,  but  that  you  must  have  diverse  shaftes  of  one 
flight,  fethered  with  diverse  winges,  for  diverse  windes: 
for  if  the  wynde  and  the  fether  go  both  one  way  the  shaft 
wyll  be  caryed  to  moche.  The  pinion  fethers  as  it  hath  the 
firste  place  in  the  winge,  so  it  hath  the  fyrst  place  in  good 
fetheringe.  You  maye  knowe  it  afore  it  be  pared,  by  a 
bought  whiche  is  in  it,  and  agayne  when  it  is  colde,  by  the 
thinnesse  above,  and  the  thicknesse  at  the  grounde,  and  also 
by  the  stifness  and  finesse  which  wyll  cary  a  shaft  better, 
faster  and  further,  even  as  a  fine  sayle  cloth  doth  a  shyppe. 
The  coulour  of  the  fether  is  leste  to  be  regarded,  yet 
sommewhat  to  be  looked  on :  for  a  good  whyte,  you  have 
sometyme  an  yll  greye.  Yet  surelye  it  standeth  with  good 
reason  to  have  the  cocke  fether  black  or  greye,  as  it  were  to 
gyve  a  man  warning  to  nocke  ryght.  The  cocke  fether  is 
called  that  which  standeth  above  in  ryght  nocking,  which  if 
you  do  not  observe  the  other  fethers  must  nedes  run  on  the 
bowe,  and  so  marre  your  shote.  And  thus  farre  of  the 
goodnesse  and  choyse  of  your  fether :  now  foloweth  the  set- 
ting on.  Wherin  3'ou  must  looke  that  your  fethers  be  not 
drawen  for  hastinesse,  but  pared  even  and  streyghte  with 
4 


50  ROGER  ASCHAM 

diligence.  The  fletcher  draweth  a  fether  when  he  hath  but 
one  swappe  at  it  with  his  knyfe,  and  then  playneth  it  a  lytle, 
with  rubbynge  it  over  his  knyfe.  He  pareth  it  when  he 
taketh  leysure  and  hede  to  make  every  parte  of  the  ryb  apt 
to  stand  streight,  and  even  on  upon  the  stele.  This  thing 
if  a  man  take  not  heede  on,  he  maye  chaunce  have  cause  to 
saye  so  of  his  fletcher,  as  in  dressinge  of  meate  is  com- 
munelye  spoken  of  Cookes :  and  that  is,  that  God  sendeth  us 
good  fethers,  but  the  devyll  noughtie  Fletchers.  Yf  any 
fletchers  heard  me  saye  thus,  they  wolde  not  be  angrye  with 
me,  excepte  they  were  yll  fletchers :  and  yet  by  reason,  those 
fletchers  too,  ought  rather  to  amend  them  selves  for  doing 
yll,  then  be  angry  with  me  for  saying  truth.  The  ribbe  in 
a  styffe  fether  may  be  thinner,  for  so  it  wyll  stande  cleaner 
on :  but  in  a  weake  fether  you  must  leave  a  thicker  ribbe,  or 
els  yf  the  ryb  which  is  the  foundacion  and  grounde,  wherin 
nature  hath  set  everye  clefte  of  the  fether,  be  taken  to  nere 
the  fether,  it  muste  nedes  folowe,  that  the  fether  shall  faule, 
and  droupe  downe,  even  as  any  herbe  doeth  whyche  hath 
his  roote  to  nere  taken  on  with  a  spade.  The  lengthe  and 
shortnesse  of  the  fether,  serveth  for  divers  shaftes,  as  a 
long  fether  for  a  long  heavy,  or  byg  shafte,  the  shorte 
fether  for  the  contrary.  Agayne  the  shorte  may  stande  far- 
ther, the  longe  nerer  the  nocke.  Your  fether  muste  stande 
almooste  streyght  on,  but  yet  after  that  sorte,  that  it  maye 
turne  rounde  in  flyinge.  And  here  I  consider  the  wonder- 
full  nature  of  shootynge,  whiche  standeth  all  togyther  by 
that  fashion,  which  is  moste  apte  for  quicke  movynge,  and 
that  is  by  roundenesse.  For  firste  the  bo  we  must  be  gath- 
ered rounde,  in  drawyng  it  must  come  rounde  compasse, 
the  strynge  must  be  rounde,  the  stele  rounde,  the  best  nocke 
rounde,  the  feather  shorne  somwhat  rounde,  the  shafte  in 
fiyenge,  must  turne  rounde,  and  if  it  flye  far,  it  flyeth  a 
rounde  compace.  For  eyther  above  or  benethe  a  rounde 
compace,  hyndereth  the  flyinge.  Moreover  both  the  fletcher 
in  makynge  your  shafte,  and  you  in  nockynge  your  shafte, 
muste  take  heede  that  two  fethers  equallye  runne  on  the 
bowe.  For  yf  one  fether  runne  alone  on  the  bowe,  it  shal 
quickely  be  worne,  and  shall  not  be  able  to  matche  with  the 
other  fethers,  and  agayne  at  the  lowse,  yf  the  shafte  be 


THE   SCH9OLE   OF   SHOOTYNGE  51 

lyght,  it  wyl  starte,  if  it  be  heavye,  it  wil  hoble.     And  thus 
as  concernyng  settyng  on  of  your  f ether.     Nowe  of  coulynge. 

To  shere  a  shafte  hyghe  or  lowe,  must  be  as  the  shafte  is, 
heavy  or  lyght,  great  or  lytle,  long  or  short.  The  swyne 
backed  fashion,  maketh  the  shaft  deader,  for  it  gathereth 
more  ayer  than  the  saddle  backed,  and  therfore  the  saddle 
backe  is  surer  for  daunger  of  wether,  and  fitter  for  smothe 
fliing.  Agyn  to  shere  a  shaft  rounde,  as  they  were  wount 
somtime  to  do,  or  after  the  triangle  fashion,  whyche  is  muche 
used  nowe  a  dayes,  bothe  be  good.  For  roundnesse  is  apte 
for  flyinge  of  his  owne  nature,  and  al  maner  of  triangle 
fashion,  (the  sharpe  poynte  goyng  before)  is  also  naturally 
apte  for  quycke  entrynge,  and  therfore  sayth  Cicero,  that 
cranes  taught  by  nature,  observe  in  flyinge  a  triangle  fash- 
ion alwayes,  bycause  it  is  so  apte  to  perce  and  go  thorowe 
the  ayer  wythall.  Laste  of  all  pluckynge  of  fethers  is 
noughte,  for  there  is  no  suerty  in  it,  therfore  let  every  archer 
have  such  shaftes,  that  he  maye  bothe  knowe  them  and  trust 
them  at  every  chaunge  of  wether.  Yet  if  they  must  nedes 
be  plucked,  plucke  them  as  litle  as  can  be,  for  so  shal  they 
be  the  lesse  unconstante.  And  thus  I  have  knit  up  in  as 
shorte  a  roume  as  I  coulde,  the  best  fethers  fetheringe  and 
coulinge  of  a  shafte. 

Phi.  I  thynke  surelye  you  have  so  taken  up  the  matter 
wyth  you,  that  jrou  have  left  nothynge  behinde  you.  Nowe 
you  have  brought  a  shafte  to  the  head,  whiche  if  it  were  on, 
we  had  done  as  concernyng  all  instrumentes  belongyng  to 
shootynge. 

Tox.  Necessitie,  the  inventour  of  all  goodnesse  (as  all 
authours  in  a  maner,  doo  saye)  amonges  all  other  thinges 
invented  a  shaft  heed,  firste  to  save  the  ende  from  breakyng, 
then  it  made  it  sharpe  to  stycke  better,  after  it  made  it  of 
strong  matter,  to  last  better:  Last  of  all  experience  and 
wysedome  of  men,  hathe  brought  it  to  suche  a  perfitnesse, 
that  there  is  no  one  thing  so  profitable,  belongyng  to  artil- 
larie,  either  to  stryke  a  mannes  enemye  sorer  in  warre,  or 
to  shoote  nerer  the  marke  at  home,  then  is  a  fitte  heed  for 
both  purposes.  For  if  a  shaft  lacke  a  heed,  it  is  worth 
nothynge  for  neither  use.  Therfore  seinge  heedes  be  so 
necessary,    they   must   of  necessitie,  be  wel   looked  upon. 


52  ROGER  ASCHAM 

Heedes  for  warre,  of  longe  tyme  have  ben  made,  not  onely 
of  divers  matters,  but  also  of  divers  fashions.  The  Trojans 
had  heedes  of  yron,  as  this  verse  spoken  of  Pandarus,  shew- 
eth: 

Up  to  the  pappe  his  string  did  he  pull,  his  shaft  to  the  harde  yron. 

Iliados.  4. 

The  Grecians  had  heedes  of  brasse,  as  Ulysses  shaftes  were 
heeded,  when  he  slewe  Antinous,  and  the  other  wowers  of 
Penelope. 

Quite  through  a  dore,  flewe  a  shafte  with  a  brasse  head. 

Odysse.  21. 

It  is  playne  in  Homer,  where  Menelaus  was  wounded  of 
Pandarus  shafte,  that  the  heedes  were  not  glewed  on,  but 
tyed  on  with  a  string,  as  the  commentaries  in  Greke  playne- 
lye  tell.  And  therfore  shoters  at  that  tyme  to  carry  their 
shaftes  withoute  heedes,  untill  they  occupyed  them,  and 
than  set  on  an  heade  as  it  apereth  in  Homer  the.  xxi.  booke 
Odyssei,  where  Penelope  brought  Ulixes  bowe  downe 
amonges  the  gentlemen,  whiche  came  on  wowing  to  her, 
that  he  whiche  was  able  to  bende  it  and  drawe  it,  might 
injoye  her,  and  after  her  folowed  a  mayde  sayth  Homer, 
carienge  a  bagge  full  of  heades,  bothe  of  iron  and  brasse. 

The  men  of  Scythia,  used  heades  of  brasse.  The  men  of 
Inde  used  heades  of  yron.  The  Ethiopians  used  heades  of 
a  harde  sharpe  stone,  as  both  Herodotus  and  Pollux  do  tel. 
The  Germanes  as  Cornelius  Tacitus  doeth  saye,  had  theyr 
shaftes  headed  with  bone,  and  many  countryes  both  of  olde 
tyme  and  nowe,  use  heades  of  home,  but  of  all  other  yron 
and  style  muste  nedes  be  the  fittest  for  heades. 

Julius  Pollux  calleth  otherwyse  than  we  doe,  where  the 
fethers  be  the  head,  and  that  whyche  we  call  the  head,  he 
calleth  the  poynte. 

Fashion  of  heades  is  divers  and  that  of  olde  tyme :  two 
maner  of  arrowe  heades  sayeth  Pollux,  was  used  in  olde 
tyme.  The  one  he  called  oyxivo?  describynge  it  thus,  havyng 
two  poyntes  or  barbes,  lookyng  backewarde  to  the  stele  and 
the  fethers,  which  surely  we  call  in  Englishe  a  brode  arrowe 
head  or  a  swalowe  tayle.  The  other  he  calleth  ?"WI?>  hav- 
ing, ii.  poyntes  stretchyng  forwarde,  and  this  Englysh  men 


THE   SCHOOLE   OF   SHOOTYNGE  53 

do  call  a  forke-head:  bothe  these  two  kyndes  of  heades, 
were  used  in  Homers  dayes,  for  Teucer  used  forked  heades, 
sayinge  thus  to  Agamemnon. 

Eighte  good  shaftes  have  I  shot  sithe  I  came,  eche  one  wyth  a  forke 
heade.  Iliad.  8. 

Pandarus  heades  and  Ulysses  heades  were  broode  arrow 
heades,  as  a  man  maye  learne  in  Homer  that  would  be  curi- 
ouse  in  knowyng  that  matter.  Hercules  used  forked  heades, 
but  yet  they  had  thre  pointes  or  forkes,  when  other  mennes 
had  but  twoo.  The  Parthyans  at  that  great  battell  where 
they  slewe  ritche  Crassus  and  his  sonne  used  brode  Arrowe 
heades,  whyche  stacke  so  sore  that  the  Romaynes  could 
not  poule  them  out  agayne.  Commodus  the  Emperoure 
used  forked  heades,  whose  facion  Herodiane  doeth  lyvely 
and  naturally  describe,  sayinge  that  they  were  lyke  the  shap 
of  a  new  mone  wherwyth  he  would  smite  of  the  heade  of  a 
birde  and  never  misse,  other  facion  of  heades  have  not  I  red 
on.  Our  Englyshe  heades  be  better  in  war  than  eyther 
forked  heades,  or  brode  arrowe  heades.  For  firste  the  ende 
beynge  lyghter  they  flee  a  great  deele  the  faster,  and  by  the 
same  reason  gyveth  a  far  sorer  stripe.  Yea  and  I  suppose 
if  ye  same  lytle  barbes  which  they  have,  were  clene  put 
away,  they  shuld  be  far  better.  For  thys  every  man  doth 
graunt,  that  a  shaft  as  long  as  it  flyeth,  turnes,  and  whan  it 
leveth  turnyng  it  leveth  goyng  any  farther.  And  every 
thynge  that  enters  by  a  turnynge  and  boring  facion,  the 
more  natter  it  is,  the  worse  it  enters,  as  a  knife  thoughe  it 
be  sharpe  yet  because  of  the  edges,  wil  not  bore  so  wel  as  a 
bodkin,  for  every  rounde  thynge  enters  beste  and  therefore 
nature,  sayeth  Aristotle,  made  the  rayne  droppes  rounde  for 
quicke  percynge  the  ayer.  Thus,  eyther  shaftes  turne  not 
in  flyeng,  or  els  our  flatte  arrowe  heades  stoppe  the  shafte 
in  entrynge. 

Phi.  But  yet  Toxophile  to  holde  your  communication  a 
lytle  I  suppose  the  flat  heade  is  better,  bothe  bycause  it 
maketh  a  greter  hoole,  and  also  bycause  it  sticks  faster  in. 

Tox.  These  two  reasons  as  they  be  bothe  trewe,  so  they 
be  both  nought.  For  fyrst  the  lesse  hoole,  yf  it  be  depe,  is 
the  worst  to  heale  agayn :  when  a  man  shoteth  at  hys  enemy, 


54  ROGER  ASCHAM 

he  desyreth  rather  that  it  should  enter  far,  than  stick  fast. 
For  what  remedye  is  it  I  praye  you  for  hym  whych  is  smitten 
with  a  depe  wounde  to  poull  out  the  shaft  quickely,  except 
it  be  to  haste  his  death  spedely?  thus  heades  whyche  make 
a  lytle  hole  and  depe,  be  better  in  war,  than  those  which 
make  a  great  hole  and  sticke  fast  in. 

Julius  Pollux  maketh  mencion  of  certayne  kindes  of  heades 
for  war  which  beare  fyre  in  them,  and  scripture  also  speak - 
eth  somwhat  of  the  same.  Herodotus  doth  tell  a  wonderfull 
pollicy  to  be  done  by  Xerxes  what  tyme  be  beseged  the 
great  Toure  in  Athenes :  He  made  his  Archers  binde  there 
shafte  heades  aboute  wyth  towe,  and  than  set  it  on  fyre  and 
shoote  them,  whych  thyng  done  by  many  Archers  set  all  the 
places  on  fyre,  whych  were  of  matter  to  burne ;  and  besydes 
that  dased  the  men  wythin,  so  that  they  knewe  not  whyther 
to  turne  them.  But  to  make  an  ende  of  all  heades  for  warre 
I  woulde  wyshe  that  the  head  makers  of  Englande  should 
make  their  sheafe  arrowe  heades  more  harder  poynted  then 
they  be :  for  I  my  selfe  have  sene  of  late  such  heades  set 
upon  sheafe  Arrowes,  as  ye  officers  yf  they  had  sene  them 
woulde  not  have  bene  content  wyth  all. 

Now  as  concernyng  heades  for  pryckyng,  which  is  oure 
purpose,  there  be  dyverse  kyndes,  some  be  blonte  heades, 
some  sharpe,  some  both  blonte  and  sharpe.  The  blont 
heades  men  use  bycause  they  perceave  them  to  be  good,  to 
kepe  a  lengthe  wyth  all,  they  kepe  a  good  lengthe,  bycause 
a  man  poulethe  them  no  f  erder  at  one  tyme  than  at  another. 
For  in  felynge  the  plompe  ende  alwayes  equallye  he  may 
lowse  them.  Yet  in  a  winde,  and  agaynste  the  wynd  the 
wether  hath  so  much  power  on  the  brode  end,  that  no  man 
can  kepe  no  sure  lengthe,  wyth  such  a  heade.  Therfore  a 
blont  hede  in  a  caulme  or  downe  a  wind  is  very  good,  other- 
wyse  none  worse. 

Sharpe  heades  at  the  ende  wythout  anye  shoulders  (I 
call  that  the  shoulder  in  a  heade  whyche  a  mans  finger  shall 
feele  afore  it  come  to  the  poynte)  wyll  perche  quycklye 
through  a  wynde,  but  yet  it  hath.  ii.  discommodities,  the 
one  that  it  wyll  kepe  no  lengthe,  it  kepeth  no  lengthe,  by- 
cause  no  manne  can  poule  it  certaynly  as  far  one  tyme  as 
at  an  other ;  it  is  not  drawen  certaynlye  so  far  one  tyme  as 


THE   SCHOOLE   OF   SHOOTYNGE  55 

at  an  other,  bycause  it  lackethe  shouldrynge  wherwyth  as 
wyth  a  sure  token  a  man  myghte  be  warned  when  to  lowse, 
and  also  bycause  menne  are  afrayde  of  the  sharpe  poynt  for 
settyng  it  in  ye  bow.  The  second  incommoditie  is  when  it 
is  lyghted  on  ye  ground,  ye  smal  poynte  shall  at  every  tyme 
be  in  jeopardye  of  hurtynge,  whyche  thynge  of  all  other 
wyll  sonest  make  the  shafte  lese  the  lengthe!  Now  when 
blonte  heades  be  good  to  kepe  a  lengthe  wythall,  yet  noughte 
for  a  wynde,  sharpe  heades  good  to  perche  the  wether  wyth 
al,  yet  nought  for  a  length,  certayne  heademakers  dwellyng 
in  London  perceyvynge  the  commoditie  of  both  kynde  of 
heades  joyned  wyth  a  discommoditie,  invented  newe  files 
and  other  instrumentes  where  wyth  [t]he[y]  broughte  heades 
for  pryckynge  to  such  a  perfitnesse,  that  all  the  commodities 
of  the  twoo  other  heades  should  be  put  in  one  heade  wyth 
out  anye  discommoditie  at  all.  They  made  a  certayne  kynde 
of  heades  whyche  men  call  hie  rigged,  creased,  or  shouldred 
heades,  or  sylver  spone  heades,  for  a  certayne  lykenesse  that 
suche  heades  have  wyth  the  knob  ende  of  some  sylver 
spones. 

These  heades  be  good  both  to  kepe  a  length  withal  and 
also  to  perche  a  wynde  wythal,  to  kepe  a  length  wythall 
bycause  a  man  maye  certaynly  poule  it  to  the  shouldrynge 
every  shoote  and  no  farther,  to  perche  a  wynde  wythall 
bycause  the  pointe  from  the  shoulder  forwarde,  breketh  the 
wether  as  al  other  sharpe  thynges  doo.  So  the  blonte  shoul- 
der servethe  for  a  sure  lengthe  kepynge,  the  poynte  also  is 
ever  fit,  for  a  roughe  and  greate  wether  percyng.  And  thus 
much  as  shortlye  as  I  could,  as  concernyng  heades  both  for 
war  and  peace. 

Phi.  But  is  there  no  cunning  as  concerning  setting  on  of 
ye  head? 

Tox.  Wei  remembred.  But  that  poynt  belongeth  to 
fletchers,  yet  you  may  desyre  hym  to  set  youre  heade,  full 
on,  and  close  on.  Ful  on  is  whan  the  wood  is  be[n]t  hard 
up  to  the  ende  or  stoppynge  of  the  heade,  close  on,  is  when 
there  is  lefte  wood  on  every  syde  the  shafte,  ynoughe  to  fyll 
the  head  withall,  or  when  it  is  neyther  to  little  nor  yet  to 
greate.  If  there  be  any  faulte  in  any  of  these  poyntes,  ye 
head  whan  it  lyghteth  on  any  hard  stone  or  grounde  wil  be 


56  ROGER  ASCHAM 

in  jeoperdy,  eyther  of  breakynge,  or  els  otherwyse  hurtynge. 
Stoppynge  of  heades  eyther  wyth  leade,  or  any  thynge  els, 
shall  not  nede  now,  bycause  every  silver  spone,  or  showl- 
dred  head  is  stopped  of  it  selfe.  Shorte  heades  be  better 
than  longe :  For  firste  the  longe  head  is  worse  for  the  maker, 
to  fyle  strayght  compace  every  waye :  agayne  it  is  worse  for 
the  fietcher  to  set  strayght  on:  thj-rdlye  it  is  alwayes  in 
more  jeoperdie  of  breakinge,  whan  it  is  on.  And  no  we  I 
trowe  Philologe,  we  have  done  as  concernynge  all  Instru- 
mentes  belongyng  to  shootynge,  whiche  every  sere  archer 
ought,  to  provyde  for  hym  selfe.  And  there  remayneth.  ii. 
thynges  behinde,  whiche  be  generall  or  common,  to  every 
man  the  Wether  and  the  Marke,  but  bicause  they  be  so  knit 
wyth  shootynge  strayght,  or  kepynge  of  a  lengthe,  I  wyll 
deferre  them  to  that  place,  and  now  we  will  come,  (God 
wyllyng)  to  handle  oure  instrumentes,  the  thing  that  every 
man  desireth  to  do  wel. 

Phi.  If  you  can  teache  me  so  well  to  handle  these  instru- 
mentes as  you  have  described  them,  I  suppose  I  shalbe  an 
archer  good  ynough. 

Tox.  To  learne  any  thing  (as  you  knowe  better  than  I 
Philologe)  and  speciallye  to  do  a  thing  with  a  mannes  handes, 
must  be  done  if  a  man  woulde  be  excellent,  in  his  youthe. 
Yonge  trees  in  gardens,  which  lacke  al  senses,  and  beastes 
without  reason,  when  they  be  yong,  may  with  handling  and 
teaching,  be  brought  to  wonderfull  thynges.  And  this  [is 
not  onely  true  in  natural  thinges,  but  in  artificiall  thinges 
to,  as  the  potter  most  connyngly  doth  cast  his  pottes  whan 
his  claye  is  softe  and  workable,  and  waxe  taketh  printe  whan 
it  is  warme,  and  leathie  weke,  not  whan  claye  and  waxe  be 
hard  and  oulde:  and  even  so,  everye  man  in  his  youthe, 
bothe  with  witte  and  body  is  moste  apte  and  pliable  to  re- 
ceyve  any  cunnyng  that  shulde  be  taught  hym. 

This  communication  of  teaching  youthe,  maketh  me  to 
remember  the  right  worshipfull  and  my  sjnguler  good  mays- 
ter,  Sir  Humfrey  Wingfelde,  to  whom  nexte  God,  I  ought 
to  refer  for  his  manifolde  benefites  bestowed  on  me,  the 
poore  talent  of  learnyng,  whiche  God  hath  lent  me :  and  for 
his  sake  do  I  owe  my  service  to  all  other  of  the  name  and 
noble  house  of  the  Wyngfeldes,  bothe  in  woord  and  dede. 


THE   SCHOOLE   OF   SHOOTYNGE  57 

Thys  worshypfull  man  hath  ever  loved  and  used,  to  have 
many  children  brought  up  in  learnynge  in  his  house  amonges 
whome  I  my  selfe  was  one.  For  whom  at  terme  tymes  he 
woulde  bryng  downe  from  London  bothe  bowe  and  shaftes. 
And  when  they  shuld  playe  he  woulde  go  with  them  him 
selfe  in  to  the  fyelde,  and  se  them  shoote,  and  he  that  shot 
fayrest,  shulde  have  the  best  bowe  and  shaftes,  and  he  that 
shot  ilfavouredlye,  shulde  be  mocked  of  his  felowes,  til  he 
shot  better. 

Woulde  to  God  all  Englande  had  used  or  wolde  use  to  lay 
the  foundacion  of  youth,  after  the  example  of  this  worship- 
ful man  in  bringyng  up  chyldren  in  the  Booke  and  the 
Bowe :  by  whiche  two  thynges,  the  hole  common  welth  both 
in  peace  and  warre  is  chefelye  ruled  and  defended  wythall. 

But  to  our  purpose,  he  that  muste  come  to  this  high  per- 
fectnes  in  shootyng  which  we  speake  of,  muste  nedes  begin 
to  learne  it  in  hys  youthe,  the  omitting  of  whiche  thinge  in 
Englande,  both  maketh  fewer  shooters,  and  also  every  man 
that  is  a  shoter,  shote  warse  than  he  myght,  if  he  were 
taught. 

Phi.  Even  as  I  knowe  that  this  is  true,  whiche  you  saye, 
even  so  Toxophile,  have  you  quyte  discouraged  me,  and 
drawen  my  minde  cleane  from  shootynge,  seinge  by  this 
reason,  no  man  that  hath  not  used  it  in  his  youthe  can  be 
excellent  in  it.  And  I  suppose  the  same  reson  woulde 
discourage  many  other  mo,  yf  they  hearde  you  talke  after 
this  sorte. 

Tox.  This  thyng  Philologe,  shall  discourage  no  man  that 
is  wyse.  For  I  wyll  prove  that  wisdome  may  worke  the 
same  thinge  in  a  man,  that  nature  doth  in  a  chylde. 

A  chylde  by  thre  thinges,  is  brought  to  excellencie.  By 
Aptnesse,  Desire,  and  Feare :  Aptnesse  maketh  hym  pliable 
lyke  waxe  to  be  formed  and  fashioned,  even  as  a  man  woulde 
have  hym.  Desyre  to  be  as  good  or  better,  than  his  felowes : 
and  Feare  of  them  whome  he  is  under,  wyl  cause  hym  take 
great  labour  and  payne  with  diligent  hede,  in  learnynge  any 
thinge,  wherof  procedeth  at  the  laste  excellency  and  per- 
fectnesse. 

A  man  maye  by  wisdome  in  learnyng  any  thing,  and 
specially  to  shoote,  have  thre  lyke  commodities  also,  wherby 


58  ROGER  ASCHAM 

he  maye,  as  it  were  become  yotmge  agayne,  and  so  attayne 
to  excellencie.  For  as  a  childe  is  apte  by  naturall  youth, 
so  a  man  by  usyng  at  the  firste  weake  bowes,  far  underneth 
his  strength,  shal  be  as  pliable  and  readye  to  be  taught  f  ayre 
shotyng  as  any  chylde :  and  daylye  use  of  the  same,  shall 
both  kepe  hym  in  fayer  shotyng,  and  also  at  ye  last  bryng 
hym  to  stronge  shootynge. 

And  in  stede  of  the  fervente  desyre,  which  provoketh  a 
chylde  to  be  better  than  hys  felowe,  lette  a  man  be  as 
muche  stirred  up  with  shamefastnes  to  be  worse  than  all 
other.  And  the  same  place  that  feare  hathe  in  a  chylde,  to 
compell  him  to  take  peyne,  the  same  hath  love  of  shotyng 
in  a  man,  to  cause  hym  forsake  no  labour,  withoute  whiche 
no  man  nor  chylde  can  be  excellent.  And  thus  whatsoever 
a  chylde  may  be  taught  by  Aptnesse,  Desire,  and  Feare, 
the  same  thing  in  shootynge,  maye  a  man  be  taughte  by 
weake  bowes,  Shamefastnesse  and  Love. 

And  hereby  you  may  se  that  that  is  true  whiche  Cicero 
sayeth,  that  a  man  by  use,  may  be  broughte  to  a  newe 
nature.  And  this  I  dare  be  bould  to  saye,  that  any  man 
whiche  will  wisely  begynne,  and  constantlye  persever  in 
this  trade  of  learnyng  to  shote,  shall  attayne  to  perfectnesse 
therein. 

Phi.  This  communication  Toxophile,  doeth  please  me 
verye  well,  and  no  we  I  perceyve  that  moste  generally  and 
chefly  youthe  muste  be  taughte  to  shoote,  and  secondarilye 
no  man  is  debarred  therfrom  excepte  it  be  more  thorough 
his  owne  negligence  for  bicause  he  wyll  not  learne,  than  any 
disabilitie,  bicause  he  can  not  lerne. 

Therfore  seyng  I  wyll  be  glad  to  folowe  your  counsell  in 
chosynge  my  bowe  and  other  instrumentes,  and  also  am 
ashamed  that  I  can  shote  no  better  than  I  can,  moreover 
havynge  suche  a  love  toward  shotynge  by  your  good  rea- 
sons to  day,  that  I  wyll  forsake  no  labour  in  the  exercise  of 
the  same,  I  beseche  you  imagyn  that  we  had  bothe  bowe  and 
shaftes  here,  and  teache  me  howe  I  should  handle  them,  and 
one  thynge  I  desyre  you,  make  me  as  fayre  an  Archer  as 
you  can. 

For  thys  I  am  sure  in  learnynge  all  other  matters,  noth- 
ynge  is  broughte  to  the  moost  profytable  use,  which  is  not 


THE   SCHOOLE   OF   SHOOTYNGE  59 

handled  after  the  moost  cumlye  fashion.  As  masters  of 
fence  have  no  stroke  fit  ether  to  hit  an  other  or  else  to  de- 
fende  hym  selfe,  whyche  is  not  joyned  wyth  a  wonderfull 
cumlinesse.  A  Cooke  can  not  chop  hys  herbes  neither 
quickelye  nor  hansomlye  excepte  he  keepe  suche  a  mesure 
with  hys  choppynge  knives  as  woulde  delyte  a  manne  both 
to  se  hym  and  heare  hym. 

Everye  hand  craft  man  that  workes  best  for  hys  owne 
profyte,  workes  most  semelye  to  other  mens  sight.  Agayne 
in  buyldynge  a  house,  in  makynge  a  shyppe,  every  parte 
the  more  hansomely,  they  be  joyned  for  profyt  and  laste, 
the  more  cumlye  they  be  fashioned  to  every  mans  syght  and 
eye.  Nature  it  selfe  taught  men  to  joyne  alwayes  wel- 
favourednesse  with  profytablenesse.  As  in  man,  that  joynt 
or  pece  which  is  by  anye  chaunce  deprived  of  hys  cumly- 
nesse  the  same  is  also  debarred  of  hys  use  and  profytable- 
nesse. 

As  he  that  is  gogle  eyde  and  lokes  a  squinte  hath  both 
hys  countenaunce  clene  marred,  and  hys  sight  sore  blem- 
myshed,  and  so  in  all  other  members  lyke.  Moreover  what 
tyme  of  the  yeare  bryngeth  mooste  profyte  wyth  it  for  mans 
use,  the  same  also  covereth  and  dekketh  bothe  earthe  and 
trees  wyth  moost  cumlynesse  for  mans  pleasure.  And  that 
tyme  whych  takethe  awaye  the  pleasure  of  the  grounde, 
carieth  wyth  hym  also  the  profyt  of  the  grounde,  as  every 
man  by  experience  knoweth  in  harde  and  roughe  winters. 
Some  thynges  there  be  whych  have  no  other  ende,  but  onely 
cumlynesse,  as  payntyng,  and  Daunsing.  And  vertue  it 
selfe  is  nothynge  eles  but  cumlynesse,  as  al  Philosophers 
do  agree  in  opinion,  therfore  seynge  that  whych  is  best  done 
in  anye  matters,  is  alwayes  moost  cumlye  done  as  both 
Plato  and  Cicero  in  manye  places  do  prove,  and  daylye 
experience  dothe  teache  in  other  thynges,  I  praye  you 
as  I  sayde  before  teatche  me  to  shoote  as  fayre,  and  welfa- 
vouredly  as  you  can  imagen. 

Tox.  Trewlye  Philologe  as  you  prove  verye  well  in  other 
matters,  the  best  shootynge,  is  alwayes  the  moost  cumlye 
shootynge  but  thys  you  know  as  well  as  I  that  Crassus  shew- 
ethe  in  Cicero  that  as  cumlinesse  is  the  chefe  poynt,  and 
most  to  be  fought  for  in  all  thynges,  so  cumlynesse  onlye, 


60  ROGER  ASCHAM 

can  never  be  taught  by  any  Arte  or  craft.  But  maye  be 
perceyved  well  when  it  is  done,  not  described  wel  how  it 
should  be  done. 

Yet  neverthelesse  to  comme  to  it  there  be  manye  waye 
whych  wayes  men  have  assayde  in  other  matters,  as  yf  a 
man  would  folowe  in  learnynge  to  shoote  faire,  the  noble 
paynter  Zeuxes  in  payntyng  Helena,  whyche  to  make  his 
Image  bewtifull  dyd  chose  out.  v.  of  the  fayrest  maydes 
in  al  the  countrie  aboute,  and  in  beholdynge  them  con- 
ceyved  and  drewe  out  suche  an  Image  that  it  far  exceded 
all  other,  bycause  the  comelinesse  of  them  al  was  broughte 
in  to  one  moost  perfyte  comelinesse :  So  lykewyse  in  shot- 
ynge  yf  a  man  woulde  set  before  hys  eyes  v.  or.  vi.  of  the 
fayrest  Archers  that  ever  he  saw  shoote,  and  of  one  learne 
to  stande,  of  an  other  to  drawe,  of  an  other  to  lowse,  and  so 
take  of  every  man,  what  every  man  coulde  do  best,  I  dare 
saye  he  shoulde  come  to  such  a  comlynesse  as  never  man 
came  to  yet.  As  for  an  example,  if  the  moost  comely  poynte 
in  shootynge  that  Hewe  Prophete  the  Kynges  servaunte 
hath  and  as  my  frendes  Thomas  and  Raufe  Cantrell  doth 
use  with  the  moost  semelye  facyons  that.  iii.  or  iiii.  excel- 
lent Archers  have  beside,  were  al  joyned  in  one,  I  am  sure 
all  men  woulde  wonder  at  ye  excellencie  of  it.  And  this  is 
one  waye  to  learne  to  shoote  fayre. 

Phi.  This  is  very  wel  truly,  but  I  praye  you  teache  me 
somewhat  of  shootyng  fayre  youre  selfe. 

Tox.  I  can  teache  you  to  shoote  fayre,  even  as  Socrates 
taught  a  man  ones  to  knowe  God,  for  when  he  axed  hym 
what  was  God :  naye,  sayeth  he,  I  can  tell  you  better  what 
God  is  not,  as  God  is  not  yll,  God  is  unspeakable,  unsearcha- 
ble and  so  forth :  Even  lykewyse  can  I  saye  of  fayre  shootyng, 
it  hath  not  this  discommodite  with  it  nor  that  discommoditie, 
and  at  last  a  man  maye  so  shifte  all  the  discommodities  from 
shootynge  that  there  shall  be  left  no  thynge  behynde  but 
fayre  shootynge.  And  to  do  this  the  better  you  must  re- 
member howe  that  I  toulde  you  when  I  descrybed  generally 
the  hole  nature  of  shootyng  that  fayre  shotyng  came  of 
these  thynges,  of  standynge,  nockynge,  drawynge,  howld- 
ynge  and  lowsynge,  the  whych  I  wyll  go  over  as  shortly  as 
I  can,  describynge  the  discommodities  that  men  commonly 


THE   SCHOOLE   OF   SHOOTYNGE  61 

use  in  all  partes  of  theyr  bodies,  that  you  yf  you  faulte  in 
any  such  maye  knowe  it  and  so  go  about  to  amend  it. 
Faultes  in  Archers  do  excede  the  number  of  Archers, 
whyche  come  wyth  use  of  shootynge  wythoute  teachynge. 
Use  and  custome  separated  from  knowledge  and  learnynge, 
doth  not  onely  hurt  shootynge,  but  the  moost  weyghtye 
thynges  in  the  worlde  beside:  And  therfore  I  marvayle 
moche  at  those  people  whyche  be  the  mayneteners  of  uses 
withoute  knowlege  havynge  no  other  worde  in  theyr  mouthe 
but  thys  use,  use,  custome,  custome.  Suche  men  more 
wylful  than  wyse,  beside  other  discommodities,  take  all 
place  and  occasion  from  al  amendment.  And  thys  I  speake 
generally  of  use  and  custome. 

Whych  thynge  yf  a  learned  man  had  it  in  hande  that 
woulde  applye  it  to  anye  one  matter,  he  myght  handle  it 
wonderfullye.  But  as  for  shootyng,  use  is  the  onely  cause 
of  all  fautes  in  it  and  therfore  chylderne  more  easly  and 
soner  maye  be  taught  to  shote  excellentlye  then  men,  by- 
cause  chylderne  may  be  taught  to  shoote  well  at  the  fyrste, 
men  have  more  payne  to  unlearne  theyr  yll  uses,  than  they 
have  laboure  afterwarde  to  come  to  good  shootynge. 

All  the  discommodities  whiche  ill  custome  hath  graffed 
in  archers,  can  neyther  be  quycklye  poulled  out,  nor  yet 
sone  reckened  of  me,  they  be  so  manye. 

Some  shooteth  his  head  forwarde  as  though  he  woulde 
byte  the  marke :  an  other  stareth  wyth  hys  eyes,  as  though 
they  shulde  flye  out :  An  other  winketh  with  one  eye,  and 
loketh  with  the  other:  Some  make  a  face  with  writhing 
thyr  mouthe  and  countenaunce  so,  as  though  they  were  do- 
yng  you  wotte  what :  An  other  blereth  out  his  tonge :  An 
other  byteth  his  lyppes :  An  other  holdeth  his  necke  a  wrye. 
In  drawyng  some  set  suche  a  compasse,  as  thoughe  they 
woulde  tourne  about,  and  blysse  all  the  f eelde :  Other  heave 
theyr  hand  now  up  nowe  downe,  that  a  man  can  not  decerne 
wherat  they  wolde  shote,  an  other  waggeth  the  upper  ende 
of  his  bow  one  way,  the  neyther  ende  an  other  waye.  An 
other  wil  stand  poyntinge  his  shafte  at  the  marke  a  good 
whyle  and  by  and  by  he  wyll  gyve  hym  a  whip,  and  awaye 
he  lets  flie.  An  other  maketh  suche  a  wrestling  with  his 
gere,  as  thoughe  he  were  able  to  shoote  no  more  as  longe 


62  ROGER  ASCHAM 

as  he  lyved.  An  other  draweth  softly  to  ye  middes,  and  by 
and  by  it  is  gon,  you  can  not  knowe  howe. 

An  other  draweth  his  shaf  te  lowe  at  the  breaste,  as  thoughe 
he  woulde  shoote  at  a  rovynge  marke,  and  by  and  by  he 
lifteth  his  arme  up  pricke  heyghte.  An  other  maketh  a 
wrynchinge  with  hys  backe,  as  though  a  manne  pynched 
hym  behynde. 

An  other  coureth  downe,  and  layeth  out  his  buttockes,  as 
though  he  shoulde  shoote  at  crowes. 

An  other  setteth  forwarde  hys  lefte  legge,  and  draweth 
backe  wyth  head  and  showlders,  as  thoughe  he  pouled  at  a 
rope,  or  els  were  afrayed  of  ye  marke.  An  other  draweth 
his  shafte  well,  untyll  wythin.  ii.  fyngers  of  the  head,  and 
than  he  stayeth  a  lyttle,  to  looke  at  hys  marke,  and  that 
done,  pouleth  it  up  to  the  head,  and  lowseth :  whych  waye 
although  summe  excellent  shoters  do  use,  yet  surely  it  is  a 
faulte,  and  good  mennes  faultes  are  not  to  be  folowed. 

Summe  men  drawe  to  farre,  summe  to  shorte,  summe 
to  slowlye,  summe  to  quickely,  summe  holde  over  longe, 
summe  let  go  over  sone. 

Summe  sette  theyr  shafte  on  the  grounde,  and  fetcheth 
him  upwarde.  An  other  poynteth  up  towarde  the  skye,  and 
so  bryngeth  hym  downewardes. 

Ones  I  sawe  a  manne  whyche  used  a  brasar  on  his  cheke, 
or  elles  he  had  scratched  all  the  skynne  of  the  one  syde,  of 
his  face,  with  his  drawynge  hand. 

An  other  I  sawe,  whiche  at  everye  shoote,  after  the  loose, 
lyfted  up  his  ryght  legge  so  far,  that  he  was  ever  in  jeop- 
erdye  of  faulyng. 

Summe  stampe  forwarde,  and  summe  leape  backwarde. 
All  these  faultes  be  eyther  in  the  drawynge,  or  at  the  loose : 
with  many  other  mo  whiche  you  may  easelye  perceyve,  and 
so  go  about  to  avoyde  them. 

Now  afterwarde  whan  the  shafte  is  gone,  men  have  manye 
faultes,  whyche  evell  Custome  hath  broughte  them  to,  and 
specially  incryinge  after  the  shafte,  and  speakynge  woordes 
scarce  honest  for  suche  an  honest  pastyme. 

Suche  woordes  be  verye  tokens  of  an  ill  mynde,  and  mani- 
feste  signes  of  a  man  that  is  subjecte  to  inmeasurable  affec- 
tions.    Good  mennes  eares  do  abhor  them,  and  an  honest 


THE   SCHOOLE   OF   SHOOTYNGE  63 

man  therfore  wyl  avoyde  them.  And  besydes  those  which 
muste  nedes  have  theyr  tongue  thus  walkynge,  other  men 
use  other  fautes  as  some  will  take  theyr  bowe  and  writhe 
and  wrinche  it,  to  poule  in  his  shafte,  when  it  flyeth  wyde, 
as  yf  he  drave  a  carte.  Some  wyll  gyve  two  or.  iii.  strydes 
forwarde,  daunsing  and  hoppynge  after  his  shafte,  as  long 
as  it  flyeth,  as  though  he  were  a  madman.  Some  which 
feare  to  be  to  farre  gone,  runne  backewarde  as  it  were  to 
poule  his  shafte  backe.  Another  runneth  forwarde,  when 
he  feareth  to  be  short,  heavynge  after  his  armes,  as  though 
he  woulde  helpe  his  shafte  to  flye.  An  other  writhes  or 
runneth  a  syde,  to  poule  in  his  shafte  strayght.  One  lifteth 
up  his  heele,  and  so  holdeth  his  foote  still,  as  longe  as  his 
shafte  flyeth.  An  other  casteth  his  arme  backewarde  after 
the  lowse.  And  an  other  swynges  hys  bowe  aboute  hym,  as 
it  were  a  man  with  a  staffe  to  make  roume  in  a  game  place. 
And  manye  other  faultes  there  be,  whiche  nowe  come  not 
to  my  remembraunce.  Thus  as  you  have  hearde,  manye 
archers  wyth  marrynge  theyr  face  and  countenaunce,  wyth 
other  partes  of  theyr  bodye,  as  it  were  menne  that  shoulde 
daunce  antiques,  be  farre  from  the  comelye  porte  in  shoot- 
ynge,  which  he  that  woulde  be  excellent  muste  looke  for. 

Of  these  faultes  I  have  verie  many  my  selfe,  but  I  talke 
not  of  my  shootynge,  but  of  the  generall  nature  of  shoot- 
ynge.  Nowe  ymagin  an  Archer  that  is  cleane  wythout  al 
these  faultes  and  I  am  sure  everye  man  would  be  delyted 
to  se  hym  shoote. 

And  althoughe  suche  a  perfyte  cumlynesse  can  not  be 
expressed  wyth  any  precepte  of  teachyng,  as  Cicero  and 
other  learned  menne  do  saye,  yet  I  wyll  speake  (accordyng 
to  my  lytle  knowlege)  that  thing  in  it,  whych  yf  you  folowe, 
althoughe  you  shall  not  be  wythout  fault,  yet  your  fault 
shal  neyther  quickly  be  perceved,  nor  yet  greatly  rebuked 
of  them  that  stande  by.  Standyng,  nockyng,  drawyng, 
holdyng,  loosyng,  done  as  they  shoulde  be  done,  make  fayre 
shootynge. 

The  fyrste  poynte  is  when  a  man  shoulde  shote,  to  take 
suche  footyng  and  standyng  as  shal  be  both  cumlye  to  the 
eye  and  profytable  to  hys  use,  settyng  hys  countenaunce 
and  al  the  other  partes  of  hys  bodye  after  suche  a  behaviour 


64  ROGER  ASCHAM 

and  porte,  that  bothe  al  hys  strengthe  may  be  employed  to 
hys  owne  moost  a[d]vantage,  and  hys  shoot  made  and  hand- 
led to  other  mens  pleasure  and  delyte.  A  man  must  not  go 
to  hastely  to  it,  for  that  is  rashnesse,  nor  yet  make  to  much 
to  do  about  it,  for  that  is  curiositie,  ye  one  fote  must  not 
stande  to  far  from  the  other,  leste  he  stoupe  to  muche 
whyche  is  unsemelye,  nor  yet  to  nere  together,  leste  he 
stande  to  streyght  up,  for  so  a  man  shall  neyther  use  hys 
strengthe  well,  nor  yet  stande  stedfastlye. 

The  meane  betwyxt  both  must  be  kept,  a  thing  more 
pleasaunte  to  behoulde  when  it  is  done,  than  easie  to  be 
taught  howe  it  shoulde  be  done. 

To  nocke  well  is  the  easiest  poynte  of  all,  and  there  in  is 
no  cunninge,  but  onelye  dylygente  hede  gyvyng,  to  set  hys 
shafte  neyther  to  hye  nor  to  lowe,  but  even  streyght  over- 
twharte  hys  bowe.  Unconstante  nockynge  maketh  a  man 
leese  hys  lengthe. 

And  besydes  that,  yf  the  shafte  hande  be  hye  and  the 
bowe  hande  lowe,  or  contrarie,  bothe  the  bowe  is  in  jeop- 
ardye  of  brekynge,  and  the  shafte,  yf  it  be  lytle,  wyll  start: 
yf  it  be  great  it  wyll  hobble.  Nocke  the  cocke  fether  up- 
ward alwayes  as  I  toulde  you  when  I  described  the  fether. 
And  be  sure  alwayes  that  your  stringe  slip  not  out  of  the 
nocke,  for  then  al  is  in  jeopardye  of  breakynge. 

Drawynge  well  is  the  best  parte  of  shootyng.  Men  in 
oulde  tyme  used  other  maner  of  drawynge  than  we  do. 
They  used  to  drawe  low  at  the  brest,  to  the  ryght  pap  and  no 
farther,  and  this  to  be  trew  is  playne  in  Homer,  where  he 
descrybeth  Pandarus  shootynge. 

Up  to  the  pap  his  strynge  dyd  he  pul,  his  shafte  to  the  hard  heed. 

The  noble  women  of  Scythia  used  the  same  fashion  of 
shootyng  low  at  the  brest,  and  bicause  there  lefte  pap  hin- 
dred  theyr  shootynge  at  the  loose  they  cut  it  of  when  they 
were  yonge,  and  therfore  be  they  called  in  lackynge  theyr 
pap  Amazones.  Nowe  a  dayes  contrarye  wyse  we  drawe  to 
the  ryghte  eare  and  not  to  the  pap.  Whether  the  olde  waye 
in  drawynge  low  to  the  pap,  or  the  new  way  to  draw  a  loft 
to  the  eare  be  better,  an  excellente  wryter  in  Greke  called 
Procopius  doth  saye  hys  mynde,  shewyng  that  the  oulde 


THE   SCHOOLE   OF   SHOOTYNGE  65 

fashyon  in  drawing  to  ye  pap  was  nought  of  no  pithe,  and 
therfore  saith  Procopius :  is  Artylarrye  dispraysed  in  Homer 
whych  calleth  it  ouzida>ov.  I.  Weake  and  able  to  do  no 
good.  Drawyng  to  the  eare  he  prayseth  greatly,  whereby 
men  shoote  bothe  stronger  and  longer:  drawnyge  therfore 
to  the  eare  is  better  than  to  drawe  at  the  breste.  And  one 
thyng  commeth  into  my  remembraunce  nowe  Philologe 
when  I  speake  of  drawyng,  that  I  never  red  of  other  kynde 
of  shootyng,  than  drawing  wyth  a  mans  hand  ether  to  the 
breste  or  eare:  This  thyng  have  I  sought  for  in  Homer 
Herodotus  and  Plutarch,  and  therfore  I  mervayle  how  cros- 
bowes  came  fyrst  up,  of  the  which  I  am  sure  a  man  shall 
finde  lytle  mention  made  on  in  any  good  Authour.  Leo  the 
Emperoure  woulde  have  hys  souldyers  drawe  quycklye  in 
warre,  for  that  maketh  a  shaft  flie  a  pace.  In  shootynge  at 
the  pryckes,  hasty  and  quicke  drawing  is  neyther  sure  nor 
yet  cumlye.  Therfore  to  drawe  easely  and  uniformely,  that 
is  for  to  saye  not  waggyng  your  hand,  now  upwarde,  now 
downewarde,  but  alwayes  after  one  fashion  until  you  come 
to  the  rig  or  shouldring  of  ye  head,  is  best  both  for  profit 
and  semelinesse.  Holdynge  must  not  be  longe,  for  it  both 
putteth  a  bowe  in  jeopardy,  and  also  marreth  a  mans  shoote, 
it  must  be  so  lytle  that  it  may  be  perceyved  better  in  a 
mans  mynde  when  it  is  done,  than  seene  with  a  mans  eyes 
when  it  is  in  doyng. 

Loosynge  muste  be  muche  lyke.  So  quycke  and  hard 
that  it  be  wyth  oute  all  girdes,  so  softe  and  gentle  that  the 
shafte  flye  not  as  it  were  sente  out  of  a  bow  case.  The 
meane  betwixte  bothe,  whcyhe  is  perfyte  loosynge  is  not  so 
hard  to  be  folowed  in  shootynge  as  it  is  to  be  descrybed 
in  teachyng.  For  cleane  loosynge  you  must  take  hede  of 
hyttynge  any  thynge  aboute  you.  And  for  the  same 
purpose  Leo  the  Emperour  would  have  al  Archers  in  war 
to  have  both  theyr  heades  polled,  and  there  berdes  shaven 
leste  the  heare  of  theyr  heades  shuld  stop  the  syght  of 
the  eye,  the  heere  of  theyr  berdes  hinder  the  course  of  the 
strynge. 

And  these  preceptes  I  am  sure  Philologe  yf  you  folowe 
in  standyng,  nockyng,  drawynge,  holdynge,  and  loosynge, 
shal  bryng  you  at  the  last  to  excellent  fayre  shootynge. 
5 


66  ROGER  ASCHAM 

Phi.  All  these  thynges  Toxophile  althoughe  I  bothe  nowe 
perceyve  them  thorowlye,  and  also  wyll  remember  them 
dilligently :  yet  to  morowe  or  some  other  day  when  you  have 
leasure  we  wyll  go  to  the  pryckes,  and  put  them  by  lytle 
and  lytle  in  experience.  For  teachynge  not  folowed,  doeth 
even  as  muche  good  as  bookes  never  looked  upon.  But 
nowe  seing  you  have  taught  me  to  shote  fayre,  I  praye  you 
tel  me  somwhat,  how  I  should  shoote  nere  leste  that  prov- 
erbe  myght  be  sayd  justlye  of  me  sometyme,  He  shootes 
lyke  a  gentle  man  fayre  and  far  of. 

Tox.  He  that  can  shoote  fayre,  lacketh  nothyng  but 
shootyng  streyght  and  kepyng  of  a  length  wherof  commeth 
hyttynge  of  the  marke,  the  ende  both  of  shootyng  and  also 
of  thys  our  communication.  The  handlyng  of  ye  wether 
and  the  mark  bicause  they  belong  to  shootyng  streyghte, 
and  kepynge  of  a  lengthe,  I  wyll  joyne  them  togyther, 
shewinge  what  things  belonge  to  kepynge  of  a  lengthe,  and 
what  to  shootynge  streyght. 

The  greatest  enemy  of  shootyng  is  the  wynde  and  the 
wether,  wherby  true  kepyng  a  lengthe  is  chefely  hindred. 
If  this  thing  were  not,  men  by  teaching  might  be  brought 
to  wonderful  neare  shootynge.  It  is  no  marvayle  if  the  litle 
poore  shafte  being  sent  alone,  so  high  in  to  the  ayer,  into 
a  great  rage  of  wether,  one  wynde  tossinge  it  that  waye,  an 
other  thys  waye,  it  is  no  marvayle  I  saye,  thoughe  it  leese 
the  lengthe,  and  misse  that  place,  where  the  shooter  had 
thought  to  have  founde  it.  Greter  matters  than  shotynge 
are  under  the  rule  and  wyll  of  the  wether,  as  saylynge  on 
the  sea.  And  lyke  wise  as  in  say  ling,  the  chefe  poynt  of  a 
good  master,  is  to  knowe  the  tokens  of  chaunge  of  wether, 
the  course  of  the  wyndes,  that  therby  he  maye  the  better 
come  to  the  Haven :  even  so  the  best  propertie  of  a  good 
shooter,  is  to  knowe  the  nature  of  the  wyndes,  with  hym 
and  agaynste  hym,  that  thereby  he  maye  the  nerer  shote  at 
hys  marke.  Wyse  maysters  whan  they  canne  not  winne  the 
best  haven,  they  are  gladde  of  the  nexte:  Good  shooters 
also,  that  can  not  whan  they  would  hit  the  marke,  wil  labour 
to  come  as  nigh  as  they  can.  All  thinges  in  this  worlde  be 
unperfite  and  unconstant,  therfore  let  every  man  acknowlege 
hys  owne  weakenesse,  in  all  matters  great  and  smal,  weygh- 


THE  SCHOOLE  OF  SHOOTYNGE        67 

tye  and  merye,  and  glorifie  him,  in  whome  only  perfyte 
perfitnesse  is.  But  nowe  sir,  he  that  wyll  at  all  adventures 
use  the  seas  knowinge  no  more  what  is  to  be  done  in  a 
tempest  than  in  a  caulme,  shall  soone  becumme  a  marchaunt 
of  Eele  skinnes:  so  that  shoter  whiche  putteth  no  differ- 
ence, but  shooteth  in  all  lyke,  in  rough  wether  and  fayre, 
shall  alwayes  put  his  wynninges  in  his  eyes. 

Lytle  botes  and  thinne  boordes,  can  not  endure  the  rage 
of  a  tempest.  Weake  bowes,  and  lyght  shaftes  can  not 
stande  in  a  rough  wynde.  And  lykewyse  as  a  blynde  man 
which  shoulde  go  to  a  place  where  he  had  never  ben  afore, 
that  hath  but  one  strayghte  waye  to  it,  and  of  eyther  syde 
hooles  and  pyttes  to  faule  into,  nowe  falleth  in  to  this  hole 
and  than  into  that  hole,  and  never  commeth  to  his  journey 
ende,  but  wandereth  alwaies  here  and  there,  farther  and 
farther  of :  So  that  archer  which  ignorauntly  shoteth  consid- 
ering neyther  fayer  nor  foule,  standynge  nor  nockynge, 
fether  nor  head,  drawynge  nor  loosyng,  nor  yet  any  corn- 
pace,  shall  alwayes  shote  shorte  and  gone,  wyde  and  farre 
of,  and  never  comme  nere,  excepte  perchaunce  he  stumble 
sumtyme  on  the  marke.  For  ignoraunce  is  nothynge  elles 
but  mere  blyndenesse. 

A  mayster  of  a  shippe  first  learneth  to  knowe  the  cum- 
myng  of  a  tempest,  the  nature  of  it,  and  how  to  behave 
hym  selfe  in  it,  eyther  with  chaungynge  his  course,  or  poul- 
lyuge  downe  his  hye  toppes  and  brode  sayles,  beyng  glad  to 
eschue  as  muche  of  the  wether  as  he  can :  Even  so  a  good 
archer  wyl  fyrst  wyth  diligent  use  and  markynge  the  wether, 
learne  to  knowe  the  nature  of  the  wynde,  and  wyth  wyse- 
dome,  wyll  measure  in  hys  mynde,  howe  muche  it  wyll  alter 
his  shoote,  eyther  in  lengthe  kepynge,  or  els  in  streyght 
shootynge,  and  so  with  chaunging  his  standynge,  or  takynge 
an  other  shaf te,  the  whiche  he  knoweth  perfytlye  to  be  fitter 
for  his  pourpose,  eyther  bycause  it  is  lower  fethered,  or  els 
bycause  it  is  of  a  better  wyng,  wyll  so  handle  wyth  discre- 
tion hys  shoote,  that  he  shall  seeme  rather  to  have  the 
wether  under  hys  rule,  by  good  hede  gyvynge,  than  the 
wether  to  rule  hys  shafte  by  any  sodayne  chaungyng. 

Therefore  in  shootynge  there  is  as  muche  difference  be- 
twixt an  archer  that  is  a  good  wether  man,  and  an  other  that 


68  •  ROGER   ASCHAM 

knoweth  and  marketh  nothynge,  as  is  betwixte  a  blynde 
man  and  he  that  can  se. 

Thus,  as  concernynge  the  wether,  a  perfyte  archer  muste 
firste  learne  to  knowe  the  sure  flyghte  of  his  shaftes,  that 
he  may  be  boulde  alwayes,  to  trust  them,  than  muste  he 
learne  by  daylye  experience  all  maner  of  kyndes  of  wether, 
the  tokens  of  it,  whan  it  wyl  cumme,  the  nature  of  it  when 
it  is  cumme,  the  diversitie  and  alteryng  of  it,  whan  it 
chaungeth,  the  decrease  and  diminishing  of  it,  whan  it  ceas- 
eth.  Thirdly,  these  thinges  knowen,  and  every  shoote  dili- 
gentlye  marked,  than  must  a  man  compare  alwayes,  the 
wether  and  his  footyng  togyther,  and  with  discretion  meas- 
ure them  so,  that  what  so  ever  the  roughe  wether  shall  take 
awaye  from  hys  shoote  the  same  shall  juste  footynge  restore 
agayne  to  hys  shoote. 

Thys  thynge  well  knowen,  and  discretelye  handeled  in 
shootynge,  bryngeth  more  profite  and  commendation  and 
prayse  to  an  Archer,  than  any  other  thynge  besydes. 

He  that  woulde  knowe  perfectly  the  winde  and  wether, 
muste  put  differences  betwixte  tymes.  For  diversitie  of 
tyme  causeth  diversitie  of  wether,  as  in  the  whole  yeare, 
Sprynge  tyme,  Somer,  Faule  of  the  leafe,  and  Winter ;  Lyke- 
wyse  in  one  day  Mornynge,  Noonetyme,  After  noone,  and 
Eventyde,  bothe  alter  the  wether,  and  chaunge  a  mannes 
bowe  wyth  the  strength  of  man  also.  And  to  knowe  that 
this  is  so,  is  ynough  for  a  shoter  and  artillerie,  and  not  to 
serche  the  cause,  why  it  shoulde  be  so :  whiche  belongeth  to 
a  learned  man  and  Philosophie. 

In  consydering  the  tyme  of  the  yeare,  a  wyse  Archer  wyll 
folowe  a  good  Shipman.  In  Winter  and  rough  wether, 
small  bootes  and  lytle  pinkes  forsake  the  seas :  And  at  one 
tyme  of  the  yeare,  no  Gallies  come  abrode;  So  lykewyse 
weake  Archers,  usyng  small  and  holowe  shaftes,  with  bowes 
of  litle  pith,  muste  be  content  to  gyve  place  for  a  tyme. 

And  this  I  do  not  saye,  eyther  to  discommende  or  dis- 
courage any  weake  shooter:  For  lykewyse,  as  there  is  no 
shippe  better  than  Gallies  be,  in  a  softe  and  a  caulme  sea, 
so  no  man  shooteth  cumlier  or  nerer  hys  marke,  than  some 
weake  archers  doo,  in  a  fayre  and  cleare  daye. 

Thus  every  archer  must  knowe,  not  onelye  what  bowe  and 


THE   SCHOOLE   OF   SHOOTYNGE  69 

shafte  is  fittest  for  him  to  shoote  withall,  but  also  what  tyme 
and  season  is  best  for  hym  to  shote  in.  And  surely,  in  al 
other  matters  to,  amonge  al  degrees  of  men,  there  is  no 
man  which  doth  any  thing  eyther  more  discretely  for  his 
commendation,  or  yet  more  profitable  for  his  advauntage, 
than  he  which  wyll  knowe  perfitly  for  what  matter  and  for 
what  tyme  he  is  moost  apte  and  fit.  Yf  men  woulde  go 
aboute  matters  whych  they  should  do  and  be  fit  for,  and  not 
suche  thynges  whyche  wylfullye  they  desyre  and  yet  be 
unfit  for,  verely  greater  matters  in  the  common  welthe  than 
shootyng  shoulde  be  in  better  case  than  they  be.  This 
ignorauncie  in  men  whyche  know  not  for  what  tyme,  and  to 
what  thynge  they  be  fit,  causeth  some  wyshe  to  be  riche,  for 
whome  it  were  better  a  greate  deale  to  be  poore :  other  to 
be  medlynge  in  every  mans  matter,  for  whome  it  were  more 
honestie  to  be  quiete  and  styll.  Some  to  desire  to  be  in  the 
Courte,  whiche  be  borne  and  be  fitter  rather  for  the  carte. 
Somme  to  be  maysters  and  rule  other,  whiche  never  yet 
began  to  rule  them  selfe :  some  alwayes  to  jangle  and  taulke, 
whych  rather  shoulde  heare  and  kepe  silence.  Some  to 
teache,  which  rather  should  learne.  Some  to  be  prestes, 
whiche  were  fytter  to  be  clerkes.  And  thys  perverse  judge- 
ment of  ye  worlde,  when  men  mesure  them  selfe  a  misse, 
bringeth  muche  mysorder  and  greate  unsemelynesse  to  the 
hole  body  of  the  common  wealth,  as  yf  a  manne  should  were 
his  hoose  upon  his  head,  or  a  woman  go  wyth  a  sworde  and 
a  buckeler  every  man  would  take  it  as  a  greate  uncumly- 
nesse  although  it  be  but  a  tryfie  in  respecte  of  the  other. 

Thys  perverse  judgement  of  men  hindreth  no  thynge  so 
much  as  learnynge,  bycause  commonlye  those  whych  be 
unfittest  for  learnyng,  be  cheyfly  set  to  learnynge. 

As  yf  a  man  nowe  a  dayes  have  two  sonnes,  the  one  im- 
potent, weke,  sickly,  lispynge,  stuttynge,  and  stamerynge, 
or  havynge  any  misshape  in  hys  bodye :  what  doth  the  father 
of  suche  one  commonly  saye?  This  boye  is  fit  for  noth- 
ynge  els,  but  to  set  to  lernyng  and  make  a  prest  of,  as  who 
would  say,  that  outcastes  of  the  worlde,  havyng  neyther 
countenaunce  tounge  nor  wit  (for  of  a  perverse  bodye  cum- 
meth  commonly  a  perverse  mynde)  be  good  ynough  to  make 
those  men  of,  whiche  shall  be  appoynted  to  preache  Goddes 


70  ROGER  ASCHAM 

holye  woorde,  and  minister  hys  blessed  sacramentes,  be- 
sydes  other  moost  weyghtye  matters  in  the  common  welthe 
put  ofte  tymes,  and  worthelye  to  learned  mennes  discretion 
and  charge :  whan  rather  suche  an  offyce  so  hygh  in  digni- 
tie,  so  godlye  in  administration,  shulde  be  committed  to  no 
man,  whiche  shulde  not  have  a  countenaunce  full  of  cumly- 
nesse  to  allure  good  menne,  a  bodye  full  of  manlye  authori- 
se to  feare  ill  men,  a  witte  apte  for  al  learnynge  with  tongue 
and  voyce,  able  to  perswade  all  men.  And  [although  fewe 
suche  men  as  these  can  be  founde  in  a  common  wealthe,  yet 
surelye  a  godly  disposed  man,  will  bothe  in  his  mynde 
thyncke  fit,  and  with  al  his  studie  labour  to  get  such  men  as 
I  speke  of,  or  rather  better,  if  better  can  be  gotten  for  suche 
an  hie  administration,  whiche  is  most  properlye  appoynted 
to  Goddes  owne  matters  and  businesses. 

This  perverse  jugement  of  fathers  as  concernynge  the 
fitnesse  and  unfitnesse  of  the3T  chyldren  causeth  the  com- 
mon wealthe  have  many  unfit  ministers:  And  seyng  that 
ministers  be,  as  a  man  woulde  say,  instrumentes  wherwith 
the  common  wealthe  doeth  worke  all  her  matters  withall,  I 
marvayle  howe  it  chaunceth  that  a  pore  shomaker  hath  so 
much  wit,  that  he  will  prepare  no  instrument  for  his  science 
neither  knyfe  nor  aule,  nor  nothing  els  whiche  is  not  very 
fitte  fcr  him :  the  common  wealthe  can  be  content  to  take 
at  a  fonde  fathers  hande,  the  rifraffe  of  the  worlde,  to  make 
those  instrumentes  of,  wherwithal  she  shoulde  worke  ye 
hiest  matters  under  heaven.  And  surely  an  aule  of  lead  is 
not  so  unprofitable  in  a  shomakers  shop,  as  an  unfit  minis- 
ter, made  of  grosse  metal,  is  unsemely  in  ye  common  welth. 
Fathers  in  olde  time  among  ye  noble  Persians  might  not  do 
with  theyr  children  as  they  thought  good,  but  as  the  juge- 
ment of  the  common  wealth  al  wayes  thought  best.  This 
fault  of  fathers  bringeth  many  a  blot  with  it,  to  the  great 
deformitie  of  the  common  wealthe :  and  here  surely  I  can 
prayse  gentlewomen  which  have  alwayes  at  hande  theyr 
glasses,  to  se  if  any  thinge  be  amisse,  and  so  will  amende 
it,  yet  the  common  wealth  having  ye  glasse  of  knowlege  in 
every  mans  hand,  doth  se  such  uncumlines  in  it :  and  yet 
winketh  at  it.  This  faulte  and  many  suche  lyke,  myght  be 
sone  wyped  awaye,  yf  fathers  woulde  bestow  their  children 


THE  SCHOOLE   OF   SHOOTYNGE  71 

on  that  thing  alwayes,  wherunto  nature  hath  ordeined  them 
moste  apte  and  fit.  For  if  youth  be  grafted  streyght,  and 
not  a  wrye,  the  hole  common  welth  wil  florish  therafter. 
Whan  this  is  done,  than  muste  every  man  beginne  to  be 
more  ready  to  amende  hym  selfe,  than  to  checke  an  other, 
measuryng  their  matters  with  that  wise  proverbe  of  Apollo, 
Knozve  thy  selfe :  that  is  to  saye,  learne  to  knowe  what  thou 
arte  able,  fitte,  and  apt  unto,  and  folowe  that. 

This  thinge  shulde  be  bothe  cumlie  to  the  common  wealthe, 
and  most  profitable  for  every  one,  as  doth  appere  very  well 
in  all  wise  mennes  deades,  and  specially  to  turne  to  our 
communication  agayne  in  shootynge,  where  wise  archers 
have  alwayes  theyr  instrumentes  fit  for  theyr  strength,  and 
wayte  evermore  such  tyme  and  wether,  as  is  most  agreable 
to  their  gere.  Therfore  if  the  wether  be  to  sore,  and  unfit 
for  your  shootynge,  leave  of  for  that  daye,  and  wayte  a  bet- 
ter season.  For  he  is  a  foole  that  wyl  not  go,  whome  neces- 
sitie  driveth. 

Phi.  This  communication  of  yours  pleased  me  so  well 
Toxophile,  that  surelye  I  was  not  hastie  to  calle  you,  to 
descrybe  forthe  the  wether  but  with  all  my  harte  woulde 
have  suffered  you  yet  to  have  stande  longer  in  this  matter. 
For  these  thinges  touched  of  you  by  chaunse,  and  by  the 
waye,  be  farre  above  the  matter  it  selfe,  by  whose  occasion 
ye  other  were  broughte  in. 

Tox.  Weyghtye  matters  they  be  in  dede,  and  fit  bothe  in 
an  other  place  to  be  spoken :  and  of  an  other  man  than  I  am, 
to  be  handled.  And  bycause  meane  men  must  meddle  wyth 
meane  matters,  I  wyl  go  forwarde  in  descrybing  the  wether, 
as  concernynge  shooting :  and  as  I  toulde  you  before,  In  the 
hole  yere,  Spring  tyme,  Somer,  Fal  of  the  leafe,  and  Winter : 
and  in  one  day,  Morning,  Noone  tyme,  After  noone,  and 
Eventyde,  altereth  the  course  of  the  wether,  the  pith  of  the 
bowe,  the  strength  of  the  man.  And  in  every  one  of  these 
times  the  wether  altereth,  as  sumtyme  wyndie,  sumtyme 
caulme,  sumtyme  cloudie,  sumtyme  clere,  sumtyme  hote, 
sumtyme  coulde,  the  wynde  sumtyme  moistye  and  thicke, 
sumtyme  drye  and  smothe.  A  litle  winde  in  a  moystie  day, 
stoppeth  a  shafte  more  than  a  good  whiskynge  wynde  in  a 
clere  daye.     Yea,  and  I  have  sene  whan  there  hath  bene  no 


72  ROGER  ASCHAM 

winde  at  all,  the  ayer  so  mistie  and  thicke,  that  both  the 
markes  have  ben  wonderfull  great.  And  ones,  whan  the 
Plage  was  in  Cambrige,  the  downe  winde  twelve  score 
marke  for  the  space  of.  iii.  weekes,  was.  xiii.  score,  and  an 
halfe,  and  into  the  wynde,  beynge  not  very  great,  a  great 
deale  above,  xiiii.  score. 

The  winde  is  sumtyme  playne  up  and  downe,  whiche  is 
commonly  moste  certayne,  and  requireth  least  knowlege, 
wherin  a  meane  shoter  with  meane  geare,  if  he  can  shoote 
home,  maye  make  best  shifte.  A  syde  wynde  tryeth  an 
archer  and  good  gere  verye  muche.  Sumtyme  it  bloweth  a 
lof te,  sumtyme  hard  by  the  grounde :  Sumtyme  it  bloweth 
by  blastes,  and  sumtyme  it  continueth  al  in  one :  Sumtyme 
ful  side  wynde,  sumtyme  quarter  with  hym  and  more,  and 
lykewyse  agaynst  hym,  as  a  man  with  castynge  up  lyght 
grasse,  or  els  if  he  take  good  hede,  shall  sensibly  learne  by 
experience.  To  se  the  wynde,  with  a  man  his  eyes,  it  is 
unpossible,  the  nature  of  it  is  so  fyne,  and  subtile,  yet  this 
experience  of  the  wynde  had  I  ones  my  selfe,  and  that  was 
in  the  great  snowe  that  fell.  iiii.  yeares  agoo :  I  rode  in  the 
hye  waye  betwixt  Topcliffe  upon  Swale,  and  Borowe  bridge, 
the  waye  beyng  sumwhat  trodden  afore,  by  waye  fayrynge 
men.  The  feeldes  on  bothe  sides  were  playne  and  laye  al- 
most yearde  depe  with  snowe,  the  nyght  afore  had  ben  a  litle 
froste,  so  that  the  snowe  was  hard  and  crusted  above.  That 
morning  the  sun  shone  bright  and  clere,  the  winde  was 
whistelinge  a  lofte,  and  sharpe  accordynge  to  the  tyme  of 
the  yeare.  The  snowe  in  the  hye  waye  laye  loose  and  troden 
wyth  horse  f eete :  so  as  the  wynde  blewe,  it  toke  the  loose 
snow  with  it,  and  made  it  so  slide  upon  the  snowe  in  the 
felde  whyche  was  harde  and  crusted  by  reason  of  the  frost 
over  nyght,  that  therby  I  myght  se  verye  wel,  the  hole 
nature  of  the  wynde  as  it  blewe  that  daye.  And  I  had  a 
great  delyte  and  pleasure  to  marke  it,  whyche  maketh  me 
now  far  better  to  remember  it.  Sometyme  the  wynd  would 
be  not  past.  ii.  yeardes  brode,  and  so  it  would  carie  the 
snowe  as  far  as  I  could  se.  An  other  tyme  the  snow  woulde 
blowe  over  halfe  the  felde  at  ones.  Sometyme  the  snowe 
woulde  tomble  softly,  by  and  by  it  would  flye  wonderfull 
fast     And  thys  I  perceyved  also  that  ye  wind  goeth  by 


THE   SCHOOLE   OF  SHOOTYNGE  73 

streames  and  not  hole  togither.  For  I  should  se  one 
streame  wyth  in  a  Score  on  me,  than  the  space  of.  ii.  score 
no  snow  would  stirre,  but  after  so  muche  quantitie  of 
grounde,  an  other  streame  of  snow  at  the  same  very  tyme 
should  be  caryed  lykewyse,  but  not  equally.  For  the  one 
would  stande  styll  when  the  other  flew  a  pace,  and  so  con- 
tynewe  somtyme  swiftlyer  sometime  slowlyer,  sometime 
broder,  sometime  narrower,  as  far  as  I  coulde  se.  Nor  it 
flewe  not  streight,  but  sometyme  it  crooked  thys  waye  some- 
tyme  that  waye,  and  somtyme  it  ran  round  aboute  in  a  com- 
pase.  And  somtyme  the  snowe  wold  be  lyft  clene  from  the 
ground  up  in  to  the  ayre,  and  by  and  by  it  would  be  al  clapt 
to  the  grounde  as  though  there  had  bene  no  winde  at  all, 
streightway  it  woulde  rise  and  flye  agayne. 

And  that  whych  was  the  moost  mervayle  of  al,  at  one 
tyme.  ii.  driftes  of  snowe  flewe,  the  one  out  of  the  West  into 
ye  East,  the  other  out  of  the  North  in  to  ye  East :  And  I 
saw.  ii.  windes  by  reason  of  ye  snow  the  one  crosse  over  the 
other,  as  it  had  bene  two  hye  wayes.  And  agayne  I  shoulde 
here  the  wynd  blow  in  the  ayre,  when  nothing  was  stirred 
at  the  ground.  And  when  all  was  still  where  I  rode,  not 
ver)re  far  from  me  the  snow  should  be  lifted  wonderfully. 
This  experience  made  me  more  mervaile  at  ye  nature  of  the 
wynde,  than  it  made  me  conning  in  ye  knowlege  of  ye 
wynd :  but  yet  therby  I  learned  perfitly  that  it  is  no  mer- 
vayle at  al  thoughe  men  in  a  wynde  lease  theyr  length  in 
shooting,  seying  so  many  wayes  the  wynde  is  so  variable  in 
blowynge. 

But  seynge  that  a  Mayster  of  a  shyp,  be  he  never  so  cun- 
nynge,  by  the  uncertayntye  of  the  wynde  leeseth  many  tymes 
both  lyfe  and  goodes,  surelye  it  is  no  wonder,  though  a  ryght 
good  Archer,  by  the  self  same  wynde  so  variable  in  hys 
owne  nature,  so  unsensyble  to  oure  nature,  leese  manye  a 
shoote  and  game. 

The  more  uncertaine  and  disceyvable  the  wynd  is,  the 
more  hede  must  a  wyse  Archer  gyve  to  know  the  gyles  of 
it. 

He  that  doth  mistrust  is  seldome  begiled.  For  although 
therby  he  shall  not  attayne  to  that  which  is  best,  yet  by 
these  meanes  he  shall  at  leaste  avoyde  that  whyche  is  worst. 


74  ROGER  ASCHAM 

Besyde  al  these  kindes  of  windes  you  must  take  hede  yf  you 
se  anye  cloude  apere  and  gather  by  lytle  and  litle  agaynst 
you,  or  els  yf  a  showre  of  raine  be  lyke  to  come  upon  you: 
for  than  both  the  dryving  of  the  wether  and  the  thyckynge 
of  the  ayre  increaseth  the  marke,  and  when  after  ye  showre 
al  thynges  are  contrary  clere  and  caulme,  and  the  marke  for 
the  most  parte  new  to  begyn  agayne.  You  must  take  hede 
also  yf  ever  you  shote  where  one  of  the  markes  or  both 
stondes  a  lytle  short  of  a  hye  wall,  and  there  you  may  be 
easlye  begyled.  Yf  you  take  grasse  and  caste  it  up  to  se 
howe  the  wynde  standes,  manye  tymes  you  shal  suppose  to 
shoote  downe  the  wynde,  when  you  shote  cleane  agaynst  the 
wynde.  And  a  good  reason  why.  For  the  wynd  whych 
commeth  in  dede  against  you,  redoundeth  bake  agayne  at 
the  wal,  and  whyrleth  backe  to  the  prycke  and  a  lytle  far- 
ther and  than  turneth  agayne,  even  as  a  vehement  water 
doeth  agaynste  a  rocke  or  an  hye  braye  whyche  example  of 
water  as  it  is  more  sensible  to  a  mans  eyes,  so  it  is  never  a 
whyt  the  trewer  than  this  of  the  wynde.  So  that  the  grasse 
caste  up  shall  flee  that  waye  whyche  in  dede  is  the  longer 
marke  and  deceyve  quycklye  a  shooter  that  is  not  ware  of  it. 

This  experience  had  I  ones  my  selfe  at  Norwytch  in  the 
chapel  felde  wythin  the  waulles.  And  thys  waye  I  used  in 
shootynge  at  those  markes. 

When  I  was  in  the  myd  way  betwixt  the  markes  whyche 
was  an  open  place,  there  I  toke  a  fether  or  a  lytle  lyght 
grasse  and  so  as  well  as  I  coulde,  learned  how  the  wynd 
stoode,  that  done  1  wente  to  the  prycke  as  faste  as  I  coulde. 
and  according  as  I  had  founde  ye  wynde  when  I  was  in  the 
mid  waye,  so  I  was  fayne  than  to  be  content  to  make  the 
best  of  my  shoote  that  I  coulde.  Even  suche  an  other  ex- 
perience had  I  in  a  maner  at  Yorke,  at  the  prickes,  lying 
betwixte  the  castell  and  Ouse  syde.  And  although  you 
smile  Philologe,  to  heare  me  tell  myne  owne  fondenes:  yet 
seing  you  wil  nedes  have  me  teach  you  somwhat  in  shotyng, 
I  must  nedes  somtyme  tel  you  of  myne  owne  experience, 
and  the  better  I  may  do  so,  bycause  Hippocrates  in  teach- 
ynge  physike,  useth  very  muche  the  same  waye.  Take 
heede  also  when  you  shoote  nere  the  sea  cost,  although  you 
be.  ii.  or.  iii.  miles  from  the  sea,  for  there  diligent  markinge 


THE  SCHOOLE  OF  SHOOTYNGE  75 

shall  espie  in  the  most  clere  daye  wonderfull  chaunginge. 
The  same  is  to  be  considered  lykewyse  by  a  river  side  spe- 
ciallie  if  it  ebbe  and  flowe,  where  he  that  taketh  diligent 
hede  of  ye  tide  and  wether,  shal  lightly  take  away  al  that  he 
shooteth  for.  And  thus  of  ye  nature  of  windes  and  wether 
according  to  my  marking  you  have  hearde  Philologe :  and 
hereafter  you  shal  marke  farre  mo  your  selfe,  if  you  take 
hede.  And  the  wether  thus  marked  as  I  tolde  you  afore, 
you  muste  take  hede,  of  youre  standing,  that  therby  you 
may  win  as  much  as  you  shal  loose  by  the  wether. 

Phi.  I  se  well  it  is  no  marvell  though  a  man  misse  many 
tymes  in  shootyng,  seing  ye  wether  is  so  unconstant  in 
blowing,  but  yet  there  is  one  thing  whiche  many  archers 
use,  that  shall  cause  a  man  have  lesse  nede  to  marke  the 
wether,  and  that  is  Ame  gyving. 

Tox.  Of  gyvyng  Ame,  can  not  tel  wel,  what  I  shuld  say. 
For  in  a  straunge  place  it  taketh  away  al  occasion  of  foule 
game,  which  is  ye  only  prayse  of  it,  yet  by  my  judgement, 
it  hindreth  ye  knowlege  of  shotyng,  and  maketh  men  more 
negligente :  ye  which  is  a  disprayse.  Though  Ame  be  given, 
yet  take  hede,  for  at  an  other  mans  shote  you  can  not  wel 
take  Ame,  nor  at  your  owne  neither,  bycause  the  wether 
wil  alter,  even  in  a  minute ;  and  at  the  one  marke  and  not 
at  the  other,  and  trouble  your  shafte  in  the  ayer,  when  you 
shal  perceyve  no  wynde  at  the  ground,  as  I  my  selfe  have 
sene  shaftes  tumble  a  lofte,  in  a  very  fayer  daye.  There 
may  be  a  fault  also,  in  drawing  or  loosynge,  and  many 
thynges  mo,  whiche  al  togyther,  are  required  to  kepe  a  just 
length.  But  to  go  forward  the  nexte  poynte  after  the  mark- 
yng  of  your  wether,  is  the  takyng  of  your  standyng.  And 
in  a  side  winde  you  must  stand  sumwhat  crosse  in  to  the 
wynde,  for  so  shall  you  shoote  the  surer.  Whan  you  have 
taken  good  footing,  than  must  you  looke  at  your  shafte,  that 
no  earthe,  nor  weete  be  lefte  upon  it,  for  so  should  it  leese 
the  lengthe.  You  must  loke  at  the  head  also,  lest  it  have 
had  any  strype,  at  the  last  shoote.  A  stripe  upon  a  stone, 
many  tymes  will  bothe  marre  the  head,  croke  the  shafte, 
and  hurte  the  fether,  wherof  the  lest  of  them  all,  wyll  cause 
a  man  lease  his  lengthe.  For  suche  thinges  which  chaunce 
every  shoote,  many  archers  use  to  have  summe  place  made 


76  ROGER   ASCHAM 

in  theyr  cote,  fitte  for  a  lytle  fyle,  a  stone,  a  Hunfyshskin, 
and  a  cloth  to  dresse  the  shaft  fit  agayne  at  all  nedes.  Thys 
must  a  man  looke  to  ever  when  he  taketh  up  his  shaft.  And 
the  heade  may  be  made  to  smothe,  which  wil  cause  it  flye  to 
far :  when  youre  shaf te  is  fit,  than  must  you  take  your  bow 
even  in  the  middes  or  elles  you  shall  both  lease  your  lengthe, 
and  put  youre  bowe  in  jeopardye  of  breakynge.  Nockynge 
juste  is  next,  which  is  muche  of  the  same  nature.  Than 
drawe  equallye,  loose  equallye,  wyth  houldynge  your  hande 
ever  of  one  heighte  to  kepe  trew  compasse.  To  looke  at 
your  shafte  hede  at  the  loose,  is  the  greatest  helpe  to  kepe 
a  lengthe  that  can  be,  whych  thyng  yet  hindreth  excellent 
shotyng,  bicause  a  man  can  not  shote  streight  perfitlye  ex- 
cepte  he  looke  at  his  marke :  yf  I  should  shoote  at  a  line  and 
not  at  the  marke,  I  would  alwayes  loke  at  my  shaft  ende, 
but  of  thys  thyng  some  what  afterwarde.  Nowe  if  you 
marke  the  wether  diligentlye,  kepe  your  standynge  justely, 
houlde  and  nocke  trewlye,  drawe  and  loose  equallye,  and, 
kepe  your  compace  certaynelye,  you  shall  never  misse  of 
your  lengthe. 

Phi.  Then  there  is  nothyng  behinde  to  make  me  hit  ye 
marke  but  onely  shooting  streight. 

Tox.  No  trewlye.  And  fyrste  I  wyll  tell  you  what 
shyftes  Archers  have  founde  to  shoote  streyght,  than  what 
is  the  best  waye  to  shoote  streyght.  As  the  wether  belong- 
eth  specially  to  kepe  a  lengthe  (yet  a  side  winde  belongeth 
also  to  shote  streight)  even  so  the  nature  of  the  pricke  is  to 
shote  streight.  The  lengthe  or  shortnesse  of  the  marke  is 
alwayes  under  the  rule  of  the  wether,  yet  sumwhat  there  is 
in  ye  marke,  worthye  to  be  marked  of  an  Archer.  Yf  the 
prickes  stand  of  a  streyght  plane  ground  they  be  ye  best  to 
shote  at.  Yf  ye  marke  stand  on  a  hyl  syde  or  ye  ground  be 
unequal  with  pittes  and  turninge  wayes  betwyxte  the 
markes,  a  mans  eye  shall  thynke  that  to  be  streight  whyche 
is  croked:  The  experience  of  this  thing  is  sene  in  paynt- 
ynge,  the  cause  of  it  is  knowen  by  learnynge. 

And  it  is  ynoughe  for  an  archer  to  marke  it  and  take  hede 
of  it.  The  cheife  cause  why  men  can  not  shoote  streight,  is 
bicause  they  loke  at  theyr  shaft:  and  this  fault  commeth 
bycause  a  man  is  not  taught  to  shote  when  he  is  yong.     Yf 


THE   SCHOOLE   OF    SHOOTYNGE  y? 

he  learne  to  shoote  by  himselfe  he  is  a  frayde  to  pull  the 
shafte  through  e  the  bo  we,  and  therfore  looketh  alwayes  at 
hys  shafte :  yll  use  confirmeth  thys  f aulte  as  it  doth  many 
mo. 

And  men  continewe  the  longer  in  thys  faulte  bycause  it 
is  so  good  to  kepe  a  lengthe  wyth  al,  and  yet  to  shote 
streight,  they  have  invented  some  waies,  to  espie  a  tree  or 
a  hill  beyonde  the  marke,  or  elles  to  have  summe  notable 
thing  betwixt  ye  markes:  and  ones  I  sawe  a  good  archer 
whiche  did  caste  of  his  gere,  and  layd  his  quiver  with  it, 
even  in  the  midway  betwixt  ye  prickes.  Summe  thought  he 
dyd  so,  for  savegarde  of  his  gere :  I  suppose  he  did  it,  to 
shoote  streyght  withall.  Other  men  use  to  espie  summe 
marke  almoost  a  bow  wide  of  ye  pricke,  and  than  go  about 
to  kepe  him  self e  on  that  hande  that  the  prycke  is  on,  which 
thing  howe  much  good  it  doth,  a  man  wil  not  beleve,  that 
doth  not  prove  it.  Other  and  those  very  good  archers  in 
drawyng,  loke  at  the  marke  untill  they  come  almost  to  ye 
head,  than  they  looke  at  theyr  shafte,  but  at  ye  very  loose, 
with  a  seconde  sight  they  fynde  theyr  marke  agayne.  This 
way  and  al  other  afore  of  me  rehersed  are  but  shiftes  and 
not  to  be  folowed  in  shotyng  streyght.  For  havyng  a  mans 
eye  alwaye  on  his  marke,  is  the  only  waye  to  shote  streght, 
yea  and  I  suppose  so  redye  and  easy  a  way  yf  it  be  learned 
in  youth  and  confirmed  with  use,  that  a  man  shall  never 
misse  therin.  Men  doubt  yet  in  loking  at  ye  mark  what 
way  is  best  whether  betwixt  the  bowe  and  the  stringe,  above 
or  beneth  hys  hand,  and  many  wayes  moo :  yet  it  maketh 
no  great  matter  which  way  a  man  looke  at  his  marke  yf  it 
be  joyned  with  comly  shotynge.  The  diversitie  of  mens 
standyng  and  drawing  causeth  diverse  men  [to]  loke  at  theyr 
marke  diverse  wayes :  yet  they  al  lede  a  mans  hand  to  shoote 
streight  yf  nothyng  els  stoppe.  So  that  cumlynesse  is  the 
only  judge  of  best  lokyng  at  the  marke.  Some  men  wonder 
why  in  casting  a  mans  eye  at  ye  marke,  the  hand  should  go 
streyght.  Surely  yf  he  consj'dered  the  nature  of  a  mans 
eye,  he  wolde  not  wonder  at  it:  For  this  I  am  certayne  of, 
that  no  servaunt  to  hys  mayster,  no  chylde  to  hys  father  is 
so  obedient,  as  everye  joynte  and  pece  of  the  body  is  to  do 
what  soever  the  eye  biddes.     The  eye  is  the  guide,  the  ruler 


78  ROGER   ASCHAM 

and  the  succourer  of  al  the  other  partes.  The  hande,  the 
foote  and  other  members  dare  do  nothynge  without  the  eye, 
as  doth  appere  on  the  night  and  darke  corners.  The  eye  is 
the  very  tonge  wherwith  wyt  and  reason  doth  speke  to  every 
parte  of  the  body,  and  the  wyt  doth  not  so  sone  signifye  a 
thynge  by  the  eye,  as  every  parte  is  redye  to  folow,  or 
rather  prevent  the  byddyng  of  the  eye.  Thys  is  playne  in 
many  thinges,  but  most  evident  in  fence  and  feyghtynge,  as 
I  have  heard  men  saye.  There  every  parte  standynge  in 
feare  to  have  a  blowe,  runnes  to  the  eye  for  helpe,  as  yonge 
chyldren  do  to  ye  mother:  the  foote,  the  hand,  and  al  wayt- 
eth  upon  the  eye.  Yf  the  eye  byd  ye  hand  either  beare  of, 
or  smite,  or  the  foote  ether  go  forward,  or  backeward,  it 
doth  so :  And  that  whyche  is  moost  wonder  of  all  the  one 
man  lookynge  stedfastly  at  the  other  mans  eye  and  not  at 
his  hand,  wyl,  even  as  it  were,  rede  in  his  eye  where  he  pur- 
poseth  to  smyte  nexte,  for  the  eye  is  nothyng  els  but  a  cer- 
tayne  wyndowe  for  wit  to  shote  oute  hir  head  at. 

Thys  wonderfull  worke  of  God  in  makynge  all  the  mem- 
bers so  obedient  to  the  eye,  is  a  pleasaunte  thynge  to  re- 
member and  loke  upon :  therfore  an  Archer  maye  be  sure 
in  learnyng  to  looke  at  hys  marke  when  he  is  yong,  alwayes 
to  shoote  streyght.  The  thynges  that  hynder  a  man  whyche 
looketh  at  hys  marke,  to  shote  streyght,  be  these :  A  syde 
wynde,  a  bowe  either  to  stronge,  or  els  to  weake,  an  ill 
arme,  whan  the  fether  runneth  on  the  bowe  to  much,  a  byg 
brested  shafte,  for  hym  that  shoteth  under  hande,  bycause 
it  wyll  hobble :  a  little  brested  shafte  for  hym  that  shoteth 
above  ye  hande,  because  it  wyl  starte :  a  payre  of  windynge 
prickes,  and  many  other  thinges  mo,  which  you  shal  marke 
your  selfe,  and  as  ye  knowe  them,  so  learne  to  amend  them. 
If  a  man  woulde  leave  to  looke  at  his  shafte,  and  learne  to 
loke  at  his  marke,  he  maye  use  this  waye,  which  a  good 
shooter  tolde  me  ones  that  he  did.  Let  him  take  his  bowe 
on  the  nyght,  and  shoote  at.  ii.  lightes,  and  there  he  shall 
be  compelled  to  looke  alwayes  at  his  marke,  and  never  at  his 
shafte :  This  thing  ones  or  twyse  used  wyl  cause  hym  for- 
sake lokynge  at  hys  shafte.  Yet  let  hym  take  hede  of  set- 
tynge  his  shafte  in  the  bowe. 

Thus,  Philologe,  to  shoote  streyght  is  the  leaste  maysterie 


THE  SCHOOLE  OF  SHOOTYNGE  79 

of  all,  yf  a  manne  order  hym  selfe  thereafter,  in  hys  youthe. 
And  as  for  keypynge  a  lengthe,  I  am  sure  the  rules  whiche 
I  gave  you,  will  never  disceyve  you,  so  that  there  shal  lacke 
nothynge,  eyther  of  hittinge  the  marke  alwayes,  or  elles 
verye  nere  shotynge,  excepte  the  faulte  be  onely  in  youre 
owne  selfe,  whiche  maye  come.  ii.  wayes,  eyther  in  having 
a  faynt  harte  or  courage,  or  elles  in  sufferynge  your  selfe 
over  much  to  be  led  with  affection :  yf  a  mans  mynde  f ayle 
hym,  the  bodye  whiche  is  ruled  by  the  mynde,  can  never  do 
his  duetie,  yf  lacke  of  courage  were  not,  men  myght  do  mo 
mastries  than  they  do,  as  doeth  appere  in  leapynge  and 
vaultinge. 

All  affections  and  specially  anger,  hurteth  bothe  mynde 
and  bodye.  The  mynde  is  blynde  therby :  and  yf  the  mynde 
be  blynde,  it  can  not  rule  the  bodye  aright.  The  body  both 
blood  and  bone,  as  they  say,  is  brought  out  of  his  ryght 
course  by  anger :  Wherby  a  man  lacketh  his  right  strengthe, 
and  therfore  can  not  shoote  wel.  Yf  these  thynges  be 
avoyded  (wherof  I  wyll  speake  no  more,  both  bycause  they 
belong  not  properly  to  shoting,  and  also  you  can  teache  me 
better,  in  them,  than  I  you)  and  al  the  preceptes  which  I 
'iave  gy  ven  you,  dilligently  marked,  no  doubt  ye  shal  shoote 
^s  well  as  ever  man  dyd  yet,  by  the  grace  of  God.  Thys 
communication  handled  by  me  Philologe,  as  I  knowe  wel 
not  perfytly,  yet  as  I  suppose  truelye  you  must  take  in  good 
worthe,  wherin  if  divers  thinges  do  not  all  togyther  please 
you,  thanke  youre  selfe,  whiche  woulde  have  me  rather 
faulte  in  mere  follye,  to  take  that  thynge  in  hande  whyche  I 
was  not  able  for  to  perfourme,  than  by  any  honeste  shame- 
f astnes  withsay  your  request  and  minde,  which  I  knowe  well 
I  have  not  satisfied.  But  yet  I  wyl  thinke  this  labour  of 
mine  the  better  bestowed,  if  tomorow  or  some  other  daye 
when  you  have  leysour,  you  wyl  spende  as  much  tyme  with 
me  here  in  this  same  place,  in  entreatinge  the  question  De 
origine  animaz.  and  the  joynyng  of  it  with  the  bodye,  that 
I  maye  knowe  howe  far  Plato,  Aristotle,  and  the  Stoicians 
have  waded  in  it. 

Phi.  How  you  have  handeled  this  matter,  Toxophile,  I 
may  not  well  tel  you  my  selfe  nowe,  but  for  your  gentle- 
nesse  and  good  wyll  towarde  learnyng  and  shotyng,  I  wyll 


80        THE  SCHOOLE  OF  SHOOTYNGE 

be  content  to  she  we  you  any  pleasure  whensoever  you  wyll: 
and  nowe  the  sunne  is  doune  therfore  if  it  please  you,  we 
wil  go  home  and  drynke  in  my  chambre,  and  there  I  wyll 
tell  you  playnelye  what  I  thinke  of  this  communication  and 
also,  what  daye  we  will  appoynt  at  your  request  for  the 
other  matter,  to  mete  here  agayne. 


THE    STEEL    GLASS 


A  SATIRE 

BY 

GEORGE   GASCOIGNE 


81 


GEORGE  GASCOIGNE 


There  is  something  zestful  in  finding  an  aristocrat  and  courtier 
scolding  his  class  in  a  stinging  satire,  which  happens  to  be  the  first  of 
its  kind  in  English  literature.  Gascoigne  was  an  esquire,  the  son  of 
an  esquire,  born  in  1535.  There  was  a  spirit-stirring  quality  in  the  air 
in  those  early  Elizabethan  days  that  told  in  restless  lives,  that  found 
joy  in  adventure  and  solace  in  singing  the  sweetest  carols  we  possess. 
This  young  fellow  embarked  in  the  law,  but  was  disinherited  as  a 
spendthrift.  Then  he  went  to  Holland  as  a  soldier  of  fortune  under 
the  Prince  of  Orange.  After  capture  and  imprisonment  he  settled  for 
a  while  in  England  and  began  his  brilliant  career  as  poet,  dramatist, 
and  in  satirical  pamphleteering. 

His  book  of  "  Posies  "'came  out  in  1574,  made  up  of  poetical  "Floures, 
Herbes,  and  Weedes."  Another  book  was  in  praise  of  hunting  and 
hawking.  His  "Complaint  of  Philomene"  was  followed  by  "A  Deli- 
cate Diet  for  Daintie  Mouthde  Droonkards. " 

The  Queen  took  him  into  favor,  and  he  wrote  some  of  the  Masques 
performed  at  the  Kenilworth  festivities  and  at  other  great  houses.  His 
dramas  are  not  accessible  in  a  collected  form. 

The  "Steel  Glass  "  is  one  of  the  most  powerful  and  admirable  satires 
ever  penned.  There  is  the  true  ring  of  patriotism  in  every  line.  It  is 
also  poetry.  The  steel  mirror  he  prefers  to  the  glass  kind  because  it 
gives  a  truer  reflection,  and  he  is  determined  that  kings  and  nobles, 
country  squires,  traders  and  producers,  priests,  magistrates,  lawyers, 
and  other  folks  shall  see  themselves  as  he  sees  them.  His  poem  makes 
excellent  tonic  reading  for  us  of  to-day.  It  has  the  merit  of  hitting  fair 
blows  with  the  best  intent,  and  is  a  fine  example  of  sturdy  English  in 
its  early  strength. 


82 


THE  STEEL  GLASS 


The  Nightingale,  (whose  happy  noble  heart, 

No  dole  can  daunt,  nor  feareful  force  affright, 

Whose  chereful  voice,  doth  comfort  saddest  wights, 

When  she  hir-self,  hath  little  cause  to  sing). 

This  worthy  bird,  hath  taught  my  weary  Muze, 

To  sing  a  song,  in  spight  of  their  despight, 

Which  worke  my  woe,  withouten  cause  or  crime, 

And  make  my  backe,  a  ladder  for  their  feete, 

By  slandrous  steppes,  and  stairs  of  tickle  talke, 

To  clyme  the  throne,  wherein  my  selfe  shoulde  sitte. 

O  Philomene,  then  helpe  me  now  to  chaunt: 

And  if  dead  beastes,  or  living  byrdes  have  ghosts, 

Which  can  conceive  the  cause  of  carefull  moan, 

When  wrong  triumphes,  and  right  is  overtrodde, 

Then  helpe  me  now,  O  byrd  of  gentle  blood, 

In  barrayne  verse,  to  tell  a  frutefull  tale, 

A  tale  (I  meane)  which  may  content  the  mindes 

Of  learned  men,  and  grave  Philosophers. 

And  you  my  Lord,  (whose  happe  hath  heretofore 

Been,  lovingly  to  reade  my  reckless  rimes, 

And  yet  have  deigned,  with  favor  to  forget 

The  faults  of  youth,  which  past  my  hasty  pen  : 

And  therwithall,  have  graciously  vouchsafed 

To  yield  the  rest,  much  more  than  they  deserved) 

Vouchsafe  (lo  now)  to  reade  and  to  peruse, 

This  rimeless  verse,  which  flowes  from  troubled  mind. 

For  thus  (my  Lord)  I  live  a  weary  life, 
Not  as  I  seemd,  a  man  sometimes  of  might, 
But  womanlike,  whose  teares  must  venge  her  harms, 

83 


GEORGE   GASCOIGNE 

And  yet,  even  as  the  mighty  gods  did  daine 
For  Philomene,  that  thoughe  her  tong  were  cutte, 
Yet  should  she  sing  a  pleasant  note  sometimes: 
So  have  they  deignd,  by  their  divine  decrees, 
That  with  the  stumps  of  my  reproved  tong, 
I  may  sometimes,  Reprovers  deedes  reprove, 
And  sing  a  verse,  to  make  them  see  themselves. 

Then  thus  I  sing,  this  simple  song  by  night, 
Like  Philomcne,  since  that  the  shining  Sunne 
Is  now  eclypst,  which  wont  to  lend  me  light. 

And  thus  I  sing,  in  corner  closely  cowcht 
Like  Philomene,  since  that  the  stately  courts, 
Are  now  no  place  for  such  poore  byrds  as  I. 

And  thus  I  sing,  with  pricke  against  my  brest, 
Like  Philomene,  since  that  the  privy  worme, 
Which  makes  me  see  my  reckless  youth  misspent. 
May  well  suffice,  to  keepe  me  waking  still. 

For  whyles  I  mark  this  weak  and  wretched  world, 

Wherein  I  see,  howe  every  kind  of  man 

Can  flatter  still,  and  yet  deceives  himselfe. 

I  seeme  to  muse,  from  whence  such  errour  springs, 

Such  grosse  conceits,  such  mistes  of  darke  mistake, 

Such  Surcjiydry,  such  weening  over  well, 

And  yet  in  dede,  such  dealings  too  too  badde. 

And  as  I  stretch  my  weary  wittes,  to  weighe 

The  cause  thereof,  and  whence  it  should  proceede, 

My  battred  braynes,  (which  now  be  shrewdly  bruised, 

With  cannon  shot,  of  much  misgovernment) 

Can  spye  no  cause,  but  onely  one  conceite, 

Which  makes  me  thinke,  the  world  goeth  still  awry. 

I  see  and  sigh,  (because  it  makes  me  sadde) 

That  peevish  pryde,  doth  al  the  world  possess, 

And  every  wight,  will  have  a  looking  glasse 

To  see  himselfe,  yet  so  he  seeth  him  not: 

Yea  shal  I  say?  a  glasse  of  common  glasse, 

Which  glistreth  bright,  and  shewes  a  seemely  shew, 


THE   STEEL   GLASS  85 

Is  not  enough,  the  days  are  past  and  gone 

That  Berral  glasse,  with  foyles  of  lovely  brown, 

Might  serve  to  shew,  a  seemely  savored  face. 

That  age  is  deade,  and  vanisht  long  ago, 

Which  thought  that  Steele  both  trusty  was  and  true, 

And  needed  not  a  foyle  of  contraries, 

But  shewde  all  things,  even  as  they  were  in  deede. 

In  steade  whereof,  our  curious  yeares  can  finde 

The  christal  glas,  which  glimseth  brave  and  bright, 

And  shewes  the  thing  much  better  than  it  is, 

Beguylde  with  foyles,  of  sundry  subtil  sights, 

So  that  they  seeme,  and  covet  not  to  be. 

This  is  the  cause  (beleve  me  now  my  Lorde) 
That  Realmes  do  rewe  from  high  prosperity, 
That  kings  decline  from  princely  government, 
That  Lords  do  lacke  their  auncestors  good  wil, 
That  knights  consume  their  patrimonie  still, 
That  gentlemen  do  make  the  merchant  rise, 
That  plowmen  begge  and  craftesmen  cannot  thrive, 
That  clergie  quayles  and  hath  small  reverence, 
That  laymen  live  by  moving  mischiefe  still, 
That  courtiers  thrive  at  latter  Lammas  day, 
That  officers  can  scarce  enrich  their  heyres, 
That  Souldiours  starve,  or  preach  at  Tiborne  crosse, 
That  lawyers  buye,  and  purchase  deadly  hate, 
That  merchants  clyme,  and  fall  againe  as  fast, 
That  roysters  brag,  above  their  betters  rome, 
That  sycophants,  are  counted  jolly  guests, 
That  Lais  leades  a  Lady's  life  alofte, 
And  Lucrece  lurkes,  with  sobre  bashful  grace. 

This  is  the  cause  (or  else  my  Muze  mistakes) 

That  things  are  thought,  which  never  yet  were  wrought, 

And  castels  built,  above  in  lofty  skies, 

Which  never  yet,  had  good  foundation, 

And  that  the  same  may  seme  no  feined  dreame, 

But  words  of  worth  and  worthy  to  be  weighed, 

I  have  presumed,  my  Lord,  for  to  present 

With  this  poore  Glasse,  which  is  of  trustie  Steele, 


86  GEORGE   GASCOIGNE 

And  came  to  me  by  will  and  testament 
Of  one  that  was  a  Glassemaker  in  deede. 

Lucylins,  this  worthy  man  was  named, 
Who  at  his  death  bequeathd  the  christal  glasse, 
To  such  as  love  to  seme  but  not  to  be, 
And  unto  those  that  love  to  see  themselves, 
How  foule  or  fayre  soever  that  they  are, 
He  gan  bequeath,  a  glasse  of  trustie  Steele, 
Wherein  they  may  be  bolde  alwayes  to  looke, 
Bycause  it  shewes  all  things  in  their  degree. 
And  since  myselfe  (now  pride  of  youth  is  past) 
Do  love  to  be,  and  let  all  seeming  passe, 
Since  I  desire,  to  see  my  selfe  in  deed, 
Not  what  I  would,  but  what  I  am  or  should, 
Therfore  I  like  this  trustie  glasse  of  Steele. 

Wherein  I  see,  a  frolik  favor  frounst 

With  foule  abuse  of  lawlesse  lust  in  youth: 

Wherein  I  see  a  Sampson's  grim  regarde 

Disgraced  yet  with  Alexander's  bearde: 

Wherein  I  see  a  corps  of  comely  shape 

(And  such  as  might  beseeme  the  courte  full  wel) 

Is  cast  at  heele  by  courting  all  too  soone : 

Wherein  I  see  a  quicke  capacitye, 

Berayde  with  blots  of  light  Inconstancie : 

An  age  suspect,  bycause  of  youthe's  misdeedes. 

A  poet's  brayne  possest  with  layes  of  love: 

A  Caesar's  minde,  and  yet  a  Codrus'  might, 

A  Souldiour's  heart,  supprest  with  feareful  doomes: 

A  Philosopher  foolishly  fordone. 

And  to  be  playne,  I  see  my  selfe  so  playne, 

And  yet  so  much  unlike  that  most  I  seemde, 

As  were  it  not  that  Reason  ruleth  me, 

I  should  in  rage  this  face  of  mine  deface, 

And  cast  this  corps  downe  headlong  in  dispaire, 

Bycause  it  is  so  farre  unlike  it  selfe. 

And  therwithal,  to  comfort  me  againe, 
I  see  a  world  of  worthy  government, 


THE   STEEL   GLASS  87 

A  common-welth,  with  policy  so  ruled 

As  neither  lawes  are  sold  nor  justice  bought, 

Nor  riches  sought,  unlesse  it  be  by  right. 

No  crueltie  nor  tyrannie  can  raigne, 

No  right  revenge  doth  raise  rebellion, 

No  spoyles  are  ta'en,  although  the  sword  prevaile, 

No  ryot  spends  the  coyne  of  common-welth, 

No  rulers  hoard  the  countrie's  treasure  up, 

No  man  growes  riche  by  subtilty  nor  sleight: 

All  people  dreade  the  magistrate's  decree, 

And  al  men  feare  the  scourge  of  mighty  Jove. 

Lo  this  (my  lord)  may  wel  deserve  the  name, 

Of  such  a  lande,  as  milke  and  hony  flowes. 

And  this  I  see,  within  my  glasse  of  Steel, 

Set  forth  even  so,  by  Solon  (worthy  wight) 

Who  taught  king  Croesus,  what  it  is  to  seme, 

And  what  to  be,  by  proofe  of  happie  end. 

The  like  Lycurgus,  Lacedemon  king, 

Did  set  to  shew,  by  viewe  of  this  my  glasse, 

And  left  the  same  a  mirour  to  behold, 

To  every  prince  of  his  posterity. 

But  now  (aye  me)  the  glasing  christal  glasse, 

Doth  make  us  thinke  that  realmes  and  townes  are  rych 

Where  favor  sways  the  sentence  of  the  law, 

Where  al  is  fish  that  cometh  to  the  net, 

Where  mighty  power  doth  over-rule  the  right, 

Where  injuries  do  foster  secret  grudge, 

Where  bloudy  sword  maks  every  booty  prize, 

Where  banquetting  is  compted  comly  cost, 

Where  officers  grow  rich  by  prince's  pens, 

Where  purchase  commes  by  cunning  and  deceit, 

And  no  man  dreads  but  he  that  cannot  shift, 

Nor  none  serve  God,  but  only  tongtied  men. 

Againe  I  see,  within  my  glasse  of  Steele, 
But  foure  estates,  to  serve  eche  country  soyle, 
The  King,  the  Knight,  the  Peasant,  and  the  Priest. 
The  King  should  care  for  all  the  subjectes  still, 
The  Knight  should  fight  for  to  defende  the  same, 


88  GEORGE   GASCOIGNE 

The  Peasant  he  should  labor  for  their  ease, 

And  Priests  shuld  pray  for  them  and  for  themselves. 

But  out  alas,  such  mists  do  bleare  our  eyes, 

And  christal  glosse  doth  glister  so  therwith, 

That  Kings  conceive  their  care  is  wonderous  great. 

When  as  they  beat  their  busie  restless  braines, 

To  maintaine  pompe  and  high  triumphant  sights, 

To  fede  their  fil  of  daintie  delicates, 

To  glad  their  harts  with  sight  of  pleasant  sports, 

To  fill  their  eares,  with  sound  of  instruments, 

To  breake  with  bit  the  hot  couragious  horse, 

To  deck  their  haules  with  sumptuous  cloth  of  gold, 

To  clothe  themselves  with  silkes  of  straunge  device, 

To  search  the  rocks  for  pearles  and  pretious  stones, 

To  delve  the  ground  for  mines  of  glistering  gold : 

And  never  care,  to  maynteine  peace  and  rest, 

To  yeld  reliefe  where  needy  lacke  appears, 

To  stop  one  eare  until  the  poore  man  speake, 

To  seme  to  sleepe  when  Justice  still  doth  wake, 

To  ard  their  lands  from  sodaine  sword  and  fier, 

To  feare  the  cries  of  giltless  suckling  babes, 

Whose  ghosts  may  call  for  vengeance  on  their  blood, 

And  stirre  the  wrath  of  mightie  thundring  Jove. 

I  speake  not  this  by  any  English  king, 
Nor  by  our  Queene,  whose  high  forsight  provides 
That  dyre  debate  is  fiedde  to  foraine  Realmes, 
Whiles  we  enjoy  the  golden  fleece  of  peace. 
But  there  to  turne  my  tale,  from  whence  it  came, 
In  olden  dayes  good  kings  and  worthy  dukes, 
(Who  sawe  themselves  in  glasse  of  trusty  Steele) 
Contented  were  with  pompes  of  little  pryce, 
And  set  their  thoughtes  on  regal  government. 

An  order  was,  when  Rome  did  flourish  most, 
•That  no  man  might  triumph  in  stately  wise, 
But  such  as  had,  with  blowes  of  bloudy  blade, 
Five  thousand  foes  in  foughten  field  foredone. 
Now  he  that  likes  to  loke  in  Christal  glasse, 


THE   STEEL   GLASS  89 

May  see  proud  popms,  in  high  triumphant  wise. 
Where  never  blowe  was  delt  with  enemie. 

When  Sergius  devised  first  the  means 
To  pen  up  fishe  within  the  swelling-  floud, 
And  so  content  his  mouth  with  daintie  fare, 
Then  followed  fast  excesse  on  Prince's  boards, 
And  every  dish  was  charged  with  new  conceits, 
To  please  the  taste  of  uncontented  mindes. 
But  had  he  seene  the  streine  of  strange  devise, 
Which  Epicures  do  now  adayes  invent, 
To  yeld  good  smacke  unto  their  daintie  tongues: 
Could  he  conceive,  how  princes  paunch  is  filled 
With  secret  cause  of  sickenesse  (oft)  unseene, 
Whiles  lust  desires  much  more  than  nature  craves, 
Then  would  he  say,  that  all  the  Romane  coast 
Was  common  trash,  compar'd  to  sundrie  Sauce 
Which  princes  use  to  pamper  Appetite. 

O  Christal  Glasse,  thou  settest  things  to  shew, 

Which  are  (God  knoweth)  of  little  worth  in  dede. 

All  eyes  behold,  with  eagre  deepe  desire, 

The  Faulcon  flye,  the  grehounde  runne  his  course, 

The  bayted  Bull  and  Beare  at  stately  stake, 

These  Enterluds,  these  newe  Italian  sportes, 

And  every  gawde  that  glads  the  minde  of  man : 

But  fewe  regard  their  needy  neighbours  lacke, 

And  fewe  beholde,  by  contemplation, 

The  joyes  of  heaven  nor  yet  the  paines  of  hel ; 

Fewe  looke  to  lawe,  but  al  men  gaze  on  lust. 

A  swete  consent  of  Musicks  sacred  sound, 
Doth  rayse  our  mindes,  (as  rapt)  all  up  on  high, 
But  sweeter  soundes  of  concorde,  peace,  and  love, 
Are  out  of  tune,  and  jarre  in  every  stoppe. 

To  tosse  and  turne,  the  sturdie  trampling  stede, 
To  bridle  him,  and  make  him  meete  to  serve, 
Deserves  (no  doubt)  great  commendation. 
But  such  as  have  their  stables  full  yfraught, 
With  pampred  Jades  ought  therwithal  to  wey, 


90  GEORGE   GASCOIGNE 

What  great  excesse  upon  them  may  be  spent, 
How  many  poor,  (which  nede  nor  brake  nor  bit) 
Might  therwith  all  in  godly  wise  be  fedde, 
And  kings  ought  not  so  many  horse  to  have. 

The  sumpteous  house  declares  the  princes  state, 
But  vaine  excesse  bewrayes  a  princes  faults. 

Our  bumbast  hose,  our  treble  double  ruffes, 
Our  suites  of  Silke,  our  comely  garded  capes, 
Our  knit  silke  stockes,  and  Spanish  lether  shoes, 
(Yea  velvet  serves  ofttimes  to  trample  in) 
Our  plumes,  our  spangs,  and  all  our  queint  aray, 
Are  pricking  spurres,  provoking  filthy  pride, 
And  snares  (unseen)  which  leade  a  man  to  hell. 

How  live  the  Mores,  which  spume  at  glistring  perle, 
And  scorne  the  costs,  which  we  do  holde  so  deare? 
How?  how  but  wel?  and  weare  the  precious  pearle 
Of  peerlesse  truth  amongst  them  published, 
(Which  we  enjoy,  and  never  wey  the  worth.) 
They  would  not  then  the  same  (like  us)  despise, 
Which  (though  they  lacked  they  live  in  better  wise 
Than  we,  which  holde  the  worthies  pearle  so  deare. 
But  glittring  gold,  which  many  yeares  lay  hidde, 
Till  gredy  mindes  gan  search  the  very  guts 
Of  earth  and  clay  to  finde  out  sundrie  moulds 
(As  redde  and  white,  which  are  by  melting  made 
Bright  gold  and  silver,  mettals  of  mischiefe) 
Hath  now  enflamde  the  noblest  Princes  harts 
With  foulest  fire  of  filthy  Avarice, 
And  seldome  seene  that  kings  can  be  content 
To  kepe  their  bounds,  which  their  forefathers  left: 
What  causeth  this  but  greedy  golde  to  get? 
Even  gold,  which  is,  the  very  cause  of  warres, 
The  nest  of  strife,  and  nourice  of  debate, 
The  barre  of  heaven,  and  open  way  to  hell. 

But  is  this  strange :  when  Lords  when  Knightes  and  Squires 
(Which  ought  defende  the  state  of  common  welth) 
Are  not  afrayd  to  covet  like  a  King? 
O  blinde  desire ;  oh  high  aspiring  harts. 


THE   STEEL   GLASS  91 

The  country  Squire,  doth  covet  to  be  Knight, 

The  Knight  a  Lord,  the  Lord  an  Erie  or  a  Duke. 

The  Duke  a  King,  the  King  would  Monarke  be, 

And  none  content  with  that  which  is  his  own. 

Yet  none  of  these,  can  see  in  Christal  glasse 

(Which  glistereth  bright,  and  bleares  their  gazing  eyes) 

How  every  life  beares  with  him  his  disease. 

But  in  my  glass,  which  is  of  trustie  Steele, 

I  can  perceive  how  kingdomes  breede  but  care, 

How  Lordship  lives  with  lots  of  lesse  delight, 

(Though  cappe  and  knee  do  seeme  a  reverence, 

And  courtlike  life  is  thought  an  other  heaven) 

Than  common  people  finde  in  every  coast. 

The  Gentleman,  which  might  in  countrie  keepe 
A  plenteous  boarde,  and  feede  the  fatherlesse, 
With  pig  and  goose,  with  mutton,  beefe  and  veale, 
(Yea  now  and  then,  a  capon  and  a  chicke) 
Wil  breake  up  house,  and  dwel  in  market  townes, 
A  loytring  life,  and  like  an  Epicure. 

But  who  (meane  while)  defends  the  common  welth? 
Who  rules  the  flocke,  when  sheperds  so  are  fled? 
Who  stayes  the  staff,  which  shuld  uphold  the  state? 
Forsooth  good  Sir,  the  Lawyer  leapeth  in, 
Nay  rather  leapes  both  over  hedge  and  ditch, 
And  rules  the  roost,  but  fewe  men  rule  by  right. 

O  Knights,  O  Squires,  O  Gentle  blouds  yborne, 
You  were  not  borne  all  onely  for  your  selves : 
Your  countrie  claymes  some  part  of  all  your  paines. 
There  should  you  live,  and  therein  should  you  toyle, 
To  hold  up  right  and  banish  cruel  wrong, 
To  helpe  the  pore,  to  bridle  back  the  riche, 
To  punish  vice,  and  vertue  to  advaunce, 
To  see  God  servde,  and  Belzebub  supprest. 
You  should  not  trust,  lief tenaunts  in  your  roome, 
And  let  they  sway  the  scepter  of  your  charge, 
Whiles  you  (meane  while)  know  scarcely  what  is  don, 
Nor  yet  can  yeld  accompt  if  you  were  callde. 


92  GEORGE   GASCOIGNE 

The  stately  lord,  which  woonted  was  to  kepe 

A  court  at  home,  is  now  come  up  to  courte, 

And  leaves  the  country  for  a  common  prey, 

To  pilling,  polling,  brybing,  and  deceit : 

(All  which  his  presence  might  have  pacified, 

Or  else  have  made  offenders  smel  the  smoke.) 

And  now  the  youth  which  might  have  served  him, 

In  comely  wise,  with  countrey  clothes  yclad, 

And  yet  therby  bin  able  to  preferre 

Unto  the  prince,  and  there  to  seke  advance: 

Is  faine  to  fell  his  landes  for  courtly  cloutes, 

Or  else  sits  still,  and  liveth  like  a  loute, 

(Yet  of  these  two,  the  last  fault  is  the  lesse:) 

And  so  those  imps  which  might  in  time  have  sprung 

Alofte  (good  lord)  and  servde  to  shielde  the  state, 

Are  either  nipt  with  such  untimely  frosts, 

Or  else  growe  crookt  by  cause  they  be  not  proynd. 

These  be  the  Knights  which  shold  defend  the  land, 

And  these  be  they  which  leave  the  land  at  large. 

Yet  here  percase,  it  wil  be  thought  I  rove 

And  runne  astray,  besides  the  kings  high  way, 

Since  by  the  Knights,  of  whom  my  text  doth  tell 

(And  such  as  shew  most  perfect  in  my  glasse) 

Is  ment  no  more,  but  worthy  Souldiours 

Whose  skill  in  armes,  and  long  experience 

Should  still  uphold  the  pillers  of  the  worlde. 

Yes  out  of  doubt,  this  noble  name  of  Knight, 

May  comprehend,  both  Duke,  Erie,  lorde,  Knight,  Squire, 

Yea  gentlemen,  and  every  gentle  borne. 

But  if  you  will  constraine  me  for  to  speak 
What  souldiours  are,  or  what  they  ought  to  be 
(And  I  my  selfe,  of  that  profession) 
I  see  a  crew,  which  glister  in  my  glasse, 
The  bravest  bande  that  ever  yet  was  sene : 
Behold  behold,  where  Pompey  commes  before, 
Where  Manlius,  and  Marius  insue, 
jEtnilius,  and  Curius  I  see, 
Palamedes,  and  Fabius  maximus, 


THE   STEEL   GLASS  93 

And  eke  their  mate,  Epaminondas  loe, 
Protesilaus  and  Phocyan  are  not  farre, 
Pericles  stands  in  rancke  amongst  the  rest, 
Aristomenes,  may  not  be  forgot, 
Unlesse  the  list  of  good  men  be  disgrast. 

Behold  (my  lord)  these  souldiours  can  I  spie 
Within  my  glasse,  within  my  true  Steele  glasse. 

I  see  not  one  therin,  which  seekes  to  heape 
A  world  of  pence,  by  pinching  of  dead  payes, 
And  so  beguiles  the  prince  in  time  of  nede, 
When  muster  day  and  foughten  fielde  are  odde. 
Since  Pompey  did  enrich  the  common  heaps, 
And  Paulus  lie  (^Emilus  surnamed) 
Retumde  to  Rome  no  richer  than  he  went, 
Although  he  had  so  many  lands  subdued, 
And  brought  such  treasure  to  the  common  chests, 
That  fourscore  yeres  the  state  was  {after)  free 
From  grevous  taske,  and  imposition. 
Yea  since  againe  good  Marcus  Curius, 
Thought  sacr Hedge  himself e  for  to  advance, 
And  see  his  souldiours  poor  or  live  in  lacke. 

I  see  not  one  within  this  glass  of  mine, 

Whose  fethers  flaunt  and  flicker  in  the  winde, 

As  though  he  were  all  onely  to  me  markt, 

When  simple  snakes,  which  go  not  halfe  so  gay, 

Can  leave  him  yet  a  furlong  in  the  field : 

And  when  the  pride  of  all  his  peacockes  plumes, 

Is  daunted  downe  with  dastard  dreadfulnesse. 

And  yet  in  towne  he  jetted  every  streete, 

As  though  the  god  of  warres  (even  Mars  himself) 

Might  wel  (by  him)  be  lively  counterfayte, 

Though  much  more  like,  the  coward  Constantine. 

I  see  none  such,  (my  Lorde)  I  see  none  such, 

Since  Phocion,  which  was  in  deede  a  Mars 

And  one  which  did,  much  more  than  he  wold  vaunt, 

Contented  was  to  be  but  homely  clad. 

And  Marius,  {whose  constant  hart  could  bide 

The  very  vaines  of  his  forwearied  legges 


94  GEORGE  GASCOIGNE 

To  be  both  cut,  and  carved  from  his  corps) 
Could  never  yet  contented  be  to  spend 
One  idle  groate  in  clothing  nor  in  cates. 

I  see  not  one,  (my  Lord)  I  see  not  one 

Which  stands  so  much  upon  his  paynted  sheath 

(Bycause  he  hath,  perchance  at  Bolleyn  bene 

And  loytered  since  then  in  idlenesse) 

That  he  accompts  no  Soldiour  but  himselfe, 

Nor  one  that  can  despise  the  learned  brayne, 

Which  joyneth  reading-  with  experience. 

Since  Palamedes,  and  Ulysses  both 

Were  much  esteemed  for  their  polhcies 

Although  they  were  not  thought  long  trained  men. 

Epamynondas,  eke  was  much  esteemde 

Whose  Eloquence,  was  such  in  all  respects, 

As  gave  no  place  unto  his  manly  hart. 

And  Fabius,  surnamed  Maximus, 

Could  joyne  such  learning  with  experience, 

As  made  his  name  more  famous  than  the  rest. 

These  bloudy  beasts  apeare  not  in  my  glasse, 

Which  cannot  rule  their  sword  in  furious  rage, 

Nor  have  respecte  to  age  nor  yet  to  kinde : 

But  downe  goeth  all,  where  they  get  upper  hand. 

Whose  greedy  harts  so  hungrie  are  to  spoyle, 

That  few  regard  the  very  wrath  of  God, 

Which  greeved  is  at  cries  of  giltlesse  bloud. 

Pericles  was  a  famous  man  of  warre, 

And  victor  eke  in  nine  great  fought  en  fields, 

Whereof  he  was  the  general  in  charge. 

Yet  at  his  death  he  rather  did  rejoyce 

In  clemencie,  than  bloudy  victorie. 

Be  still  (quoth  he)  you  grave  Athenians, 

(  Who  whispered,  and  tolde  his  valiant  facts) 

You  have  forgot  my  greatest  glorie  got. 

For  yet  by  me,  nor  mine  occasion 

Was  never  sene  a  mourning  garment  worne. 

O  noble  words,  wel  worthy  golden  writ. 

Beleve  me  (Lord)  a  souldiour  cannot  have 

Too  great  regarde  whereon  his  knife  should  cut 


THE   STEEL   GLASS  95 

Nor  yet  the  men  which  wonder  at  their  wounds, 
And  shewe  their  scarres  to  every  commer  by, 
Dare  once  be  seene  within  my  glasse  of  Steele, 
For  so  the  faults  of  Thraso  and  his  trayne, 
(Whom  Terence  told  to  be  but  bragging  brutes) 
Might  soone  appeare  to  every  skilful  eye. 
Bolde  Manlius  could  close  and  wel  convey 
Full  thirtie  wounds,  {and  three)  upon  his  head, 
Yet  never  made  nor  bones  nor  bragges  thereof. 

What  should  I  speake  of  drunken  Soldiours? 
Or  lechers  lewde,  which  fight  for  filthy  lust? 
Of  whom  that  one  can  sit  and  bybbe  his  fill, 
Consume  his  coyne,  (which  might  good  corage  yeld, 
To  such  as  march  and  move  at  his  commaunde) 
And  makes  himselfe  a  worthy  mocking  stocke 
Which  might  deserve,  (by  sobre  life)  great  laude. 
That  other  dotes,  and  driveth  forth  his  dayes 
In  vaine  delight  and  foule  concupiscence, 
When  works  of  weight,  might  occupie  his  hedde. 
Yea  therwithal  he  puts  his  owne  fonde  heade 
Under  the  belt  of  such  as  should  him  serve, 
And  so  becoms  example  of  much  evil, 
Which  should  have  servde  as  lanterne  of  good  life 
And  is  controlde,  whereas  he  should  commaund. 
Augustus  Cczsar,  he  which  might  have  made 
Both  feasts  and  banquets  bravely  as  the  best, 
Was  yet  content  (in  campe)  with  homely  cates, 
And  seldome  dranke  his  wine  unwatered. 
Aristomenes  dayned  to  defende 
His  dames  of  prize,  whom  he  in  warres  had  won, 
And  rather  chose  to  die  in  their  defence, 
Then  filthy  men  shoulde  soyle  their  chastitie. 
This  was  a  wight  wel  worthy  fame  and  prayse. 

O  Captayns  come,  and  Souldiours  come  apace, 
Behold  my  glasse,  and  you  shall  see  therin, 
Proud  Crassus  bagges,  consumde  by  covetise, 
Great  Alexander,  drounde  in  drunkennesse, 
Cczsar  and  Pompey,  split  with  privy  grudge, 


96  GEORGE   GASCOIGNE 

Brennus  beguild  with  lightnesse  of  beliefe, 
Cledmenes,  by  ryot  not  regarded, 
Vespasian,  disdayned  for  deceit, 
Demetrius,  light  set  by  for  his  lust, 
Whereby  at  last  he  dyed  in  prison  pent. 

Hereto,  percase,  some  one  man  will  alledge, 
That  Princes  pence,  are  pursed  up  so  close, 
And  faires  do  fall  so  seldome  in  a  yeare, 
That  when  they  come,  provision  must  be  made 
To  sende  the  frost  in  hardest  winter  nights. 

Indeede  I  finde  within  this  glasse  of  mine, 
Justinian,  that  proude  ungrateful  prince, 
Which  made  to  begge  bold  Belisarius, 
His  trustie  man,  which  had  so  stoutly  fought 
In  his  defence,  with  evry  enimy. 
And  Scypio  condemnes  the  Romaine  rule, 
Which  suffred  him  (that  had  so  truely  served) 
To  leade  poore  life  at  his  (Lynternuni)  ferme, 
Which  did  deserve  such  worthy  recompence. 
Yea  herewithal,  most  Souldiours  of  our  time, 
Beleeve  for  truth  that  proude  Justinian 
Did  never  die  without  good  store  of  heyres. 
And  Romanes  race  cannot  be  rooted  out, 
Such  issew  springs,  of  such  unpleasant  budds. 

But  shal  I  say?  this  lesson  learne  of  me, 

When  drums  are  dumb,  and  sound  not  dub  a  dub, 

Then  be  thou  eke  as  mewt  as  a  mayde 

(I  preach  this  sermon  but  to  souldiours) 

And  learne  to  live  within  thy  bravries  bounds. 

Let  not  the  Mercer  pul  thee  by  the  sleeve 

For  sutes  of  silke  when  cloth  may  serve  thy  turne. 

Let  not  thy  scores  come  robbe  thy  needy  purse, 

Make  not  the  catchpol  rich  by  thine  arrest. 

Art  thou  a  Gentle?  live  with  gentle  friendes, 
Which  wil  be  glad  thy  companie  to  have, 
If  manhoode  may  with  manners  well  agree. 


THE  STEEL  GLASS  97 

Art  thou  a  serving  man?  then  serve  againe, 
And  stint  to  steale  as  common  souldiours  do. 

Art  thou  a  craftsman?  take  thee  to  thine  arte, 
And  cast  off  slouth,  which  loytreth  in  the  Campes. 

Art  thou  a  plowman  pressed  for  a  shift? 

Then  learne  to  clout  thine  old  cast  cobled  shoes, 

And  rather  bide  at  home  with  barly  bread, 

Than  learne  to  spoyle,  as  thou  hast  seene  some  do. 

Of  truth  (my  friendes,  and  my  companions  eke) 
Who  lust  by  warres  to  gather  lawful  welth, 
And  so  to  get  a  right  renouned  name, 
Must  cast  aside,  all  common  trades  of  warre, 
And  learne  to  live,  as  though  he  knew  it  not. 

Well,  thus  my  Knight  hath  held  me  all  too  long. 

Bycause  he  bare  such  compasse  in  my  glasse. 

High  time  were  then  to  turne  my  wery  pen, 

Unto  the  Peasant  comming  next  in  place, 

And  here  to  write,  the  summe  of  my  conceit, 

I  do  not  meane,  alonely  husbandmen, 

Which  till  the  ground,  which  dig,  delve,  mow  and  sowe. 

Which  swinke  and  sweate  whiles  we  do  sleepe  and  snort 

And  serch  the  guts  of  earth,  for  greedy  gain, 

But  he  that  labors  any  kind  of  way. 

To  gather  gaines,  and  to  enrich  himselfe, 

By  King,  by  Knight,  by  holy  helping  Priests. 

And  all  the  rest,  that  live  in  common  welth, 

(So  that  his  gaines,  by  greedy  guyles  be  got) 

Him  can  I  compt  a  Peasant  in  his  place. 

All  officers,  all  advocates  at  lawe, 

All  men  of  arte,  which  get  goodes  greedily, 

Must  be  content,  to  take  a  Peasants  roome. 

A  strange  devise,  and  sure  my  Lord  will  laugh, 
To  see  it  so,  desgested  in  degrees. 
But  he  which  can,  in  office  drudge,  and  droy, 
And  crave  of  all  (although  even  now  a  dayes, 
Most  officers,  commaund  that  shuld  be  craved) 
7 


98  GEORGE  GASCOIGNE 

He  that  can  share  from  every  pension  payde 

A  Peeter  peny  weying  halfe  a  pounde, 

He  that  can  plucke  Sir  Bennet  by  the  sleeve, 

And  finde  a  fee  in  his  pluralitie, 

He  that  can  winke  at  any  foule  abuse, 

As  lcng  as  gaines  come  trouling  in  therwith, 

Shal  such  come  see  themselves  in  this  my  glasse? 

Or  shal  they  gaze,  as  godly  good  men  do? 

Yea  let  them  come:  but  shal  I  tell  you  one  thing? 

How  ere  their  gownes  be  gathered  in  the  backe, 

With  organe  pipes  of  old  king  Henries  clampe, 

How  ere  their  cappes  be  folded  with  a  flappe, 

How  ere  their  beards  be  clipped  by  the  chinne, 

How  ere  they  ride,  or  mounted  are  on  mules, 

I  compt  them  worse  than  harmeles  homely  hindes, 

Which  toyle  in  dede,  to  serve  our  common  use. 

Strange  tale  to  tel :  all  officers  be  blynde, 

And  yet  their  one  eye  sharpe  as  Linceus  sight, 

That  one  eye  winks  as  though  it  were  but  blynd, 

That  other  pries  and  peekes  in  every  place. 

Come  naked  neede?  and  chance  to  do  amisse? 

He  shal  be  sure  to  drinke  upon  the  whippe. 

But  privie  gaine,  (that  bribing  busie  wretch) 

Can  finde  the  meanes,  to  creepe  and  cowch  so  low, 

As  officers  can  never  see  him  slyde, 

Nor  heare  the  trampling  of  his  stealing  steppes. 

He  comes  (I  thinke,)  upon  the  blinde  side  stil. 

These  things  (my  Lord)  my  glasse  now  sets  to  shew, 

Whereas  long  since  all  officers  were  seene 

To  be  men  made  out  of  another  moulde. 

Epamynond,  of  whom  I  spake  before 

(Which  was  long  time  an  officer  in  Thebes) 

And  toylde  in  peace,  as  wel  as  fought  in  warre, 

Would  never  take  a  bribe,  or  rich  reward. 

And  thus  he  spake  to  such  as  sought  his  helpe : 

If  it  be  good,  (quoth  he)  that  you  desire, 

Then  wil  I  do  it  for  the  vertues  sake : 

If  it  be  badde,  no  bribe  can  me  infecte. 


THE   STEEL   GLASS  99 

If  so  it  be,  for  this  my  common  weale, 

Then  am  I  borne  and  bound  by  duetie  both 

To  see  it  done  withouten  furder  words. 

But  if  it  be  unprofitable  thing, 

And  might  empaire,  offende,  or  yeld  anoy 

Unto  the  state,  which  I  pretende  to  stay, 

Then  al  the  gold  (quoth  he)  that  growes  on  earth 

Shal  never  tempt  my  free  consent  thereto. 

How  many  now  wil  treade  Zelencus  steps? 
Or  who  can  byde  Cambyses  cruel  dome? 
Cruel?  nay  just,  (yea  softe  and  peace  good  sir) 
For  Justice  sleepes,  and  Troth  is  jested  out. 

O  that  all  kings,  would  {Alexander  like) 

Hold  evermore  one  finger  streight  stretcht  out, 

To  thrust  in  eyes,  of  all  their  master  theeves. 

But  Brutus  died,  without  posteritie, 

And  Marcus  Crassus  had  none  issue  male, 

Cicero  slipt  unsene  out  of  this  world, 

With  many  mo,  which  pleaded  Romaine  pleas, 

And  were  content  to  use  their  eloquence, 

In  maintenance,  of  matters  that  were  good. 

Demosthenes,  in  Athens  used  his  arte, 

(Not  for  to  heape  himselfe  great  houids  of  gold, 

But)  stil  to  stay  the  towne  from  deepe  deceite 

Of  Philips  wyles,  which  had  besieged  it. 

Where  shal  we  reade  that  any  of  these  foure 

Did  ever  pleade  as  carelesse  of  the  trial? 

Or  who  can  say  they  builded  sumpteously? 

Or  wroong  the  weake  out  of  his  own  by  wyles? 

They  were  (I  trowe)  of  noble  houses  borne, 

And  yet  content  to  use  their  best  devoire, 

In  furdering  eche  honest  harmelesse  cause. 

They  did  not  rowte  (like  rude  unringed  swine,) 

To  roote  nobilitie  from  heritage. 

They  stoode  content  with  gaine  of  glorious  fame, 

(Bycause  they  had  respect  to  equitie) 

To  leade  a  life  like  true  Philosophers. 

Of  all  the  bristle  bearded  Advocates 


ioo  GEORGE  GASCOIGNE 

That  ever  lovde  their  fees  above  the  cause, 
I  cannot  see,  (scarce  one)  that  is  so  bolde 
To  shewe  his  face,  and  fayned  Phisnomie 
In  this  my  glasse :  but  if  he  do  (my  Lorde) 
He  shewes  himselfe  to  be  by  very  kinde 
A  man  which  meanes  at  every  time  and  tide, 
To  do  smal  right  but  sure  to  take  no  wrong. 

And  master  Merchant  he  whose  travaile  ought 
Commodiously  to  doe  his  countrie  good, 
And  by  his  toyle  the  same  for  to  enriche, 
Can  finde  the  meane  to  make  Monopolies 
Of  every  ware  that  is  accompted  strange. 
And  feeds  the  vaine  of  courtiers  vaine  desires 
Until  the  court  have  courtiers  cast  at  heele, 
Quia  non  habent  vestes  Nuptiales. 

O  painted  fooles,  whose  harebrainde  heads  must  have 

More  clothes  attones  than  might  become  a  king : 

For  whom  the  rocks,  in  forain  Realmes  must  spin, 

For  whom  they  card,  for  whom  they  weave  their  webbes, 

For  whom  no  wool  appeareth  fine  enough, 

(I  speake  not  this  by  English  courtiers 

Since  English  wool,  was  ever  thought  most  worth) 

For  whom  al  seas  are  tossed  to  and  fro, 

For  whom  these  purples  come  from  Persia, 

The  crimosine,  and  lively  red  from  Inde  : 

For  whom  soft  silks  do  sayle  from  Sericane, 

And  all  queint  costs  do  come  from  fardest  coasts: 

Whiles  in  meanewhile,  that  worthy  Emperour, 

Which  rulde  the  world,  and  had  all  welth  at  wil, 

Could  be  content  to  tire  his  wearie  wife, 

His  daughters  and  his  nieces  everyone, 

To  spin  and  worke  the  clothes  that  he  shuld  weare, 

And  never  cared  for  silks  or  sumpteous  cost, 

For  cloth  of  gold,  or  tinsel  figurie, 

For  Baudkin,  broydrie,  cutworks,  nor  conceits. 

He  set  the  shippes  of  merchantmen  on  worke, 

With  bringing  home,  oyle,  graine,  and  savrie  salt 

And  such  like  wares  as  served  common  use. 


THE   STEEL   GLASS  101 

Yea  for  my  life,  those  merchants  were  not  woont 

To  lend  their  wares  at  reasonable  rate, 

(To  gaine  no  more,  but  Cento  por  cento, ) 

To  teach  yong  men  the  trade  to  sell  browne  paper, 

Yea  Morrice  bells,  and  byllets  too  sometimes, 

To  make  their  coyne,  a  net  to  catch  yong  frye. 

To  binde  such  babes  in  father  Derbies  bands, 

To  stay  their  steps  by  statute  Staples  staffe, 

To  rule  yong  roysters  with  Recognisance, 

To  read  Arithmetic ke  once  every  day, 

In  Wood  street,  Bred  street,  and  in  Poultery 

(Where  such  schoolmaisters  keepe  their  counting  house) 

To  fede  on  bones  when  flesh  and  fell  is  gon, 

To  keepe  their  byrds  ful  close  in  caytiffes  cage, 

(Who  being  brought  to  libertie  at  large, 

Might  sing  perchaunce,  abroade,  when  sunne  doth  shine 

Of  their  mishaps,  and  how  their  fethers  fel) 

Untill  the  canker  may  their  corpse  consume. 

These  knackes  (my  lord)  I  cannot  call  to  minde, 

Bycause  they  shewe  not  in  my  glasse  of  Steele. 

But  holla :  here,  I  see  a  wondrous  sight, 

I  see  a  swarme  of  Saints  within  my  glasse : 

Beholde,  behold,  I  see  a  swarme  in  deede 

Of  holy  Saints,  which  walke  in  comely  wise 

Not  deckt  in  robes  nor  garnished  with  gold, 

But  some  unshod,  yea  some  ful  thinly  clothde, 

And  yet  they  seme  so  heavenly  for  to  see, 

As  if  their  eyes  were  all  of  Diamonds, 

Their  face  of  Rubies,  Saphires,  and  Iacincts, 

Their  comly  beards  and  hare  of  silver  wiers. 

And  to  be  short,  they  seeme  Angelycall. 

What  should  they  be,  (my  Lord)  what  shoulde  they  be? 

O  gratious  God,  I  see  now  what  they  be. 
These  be  my  priests,  which  pray  for  evry  state, 
These  be  my  priests,  devorced  from  the  world, 
And  wedded  yet  to  heaven  and  holynesse, 
Which  are  not  proude,  nor  covet  to  be  riche. 
Which  go  not  gay,  nor  fede  on  daintie  foode, 


102  GEORGE   GASCOIGNE 

Which  envie  not  nor  knowe  what  malice  meanes, 
Which  loth  all  lust,  disdayning  drunkennesse, 
Which  cannot  faine,  which  hate  hypocrisie. 
Which  never  sawe  Sir  Simonies  deceits. 
Which  preach  of  peace,  which  carpe  contentious 
Which  loyter  not,  but  labour  all  the  yeare, 
Which  thunder  threts  of  gods  most  grevous  wrath, 
And  yet  do  teach,  that  mercie  is  in  store. 

Lo  these  (my  Lord)  be  my  good  praying  priests, 
Descended  from  Melchysedec  by  line 
Cosens  to  Paule,  to  Peter,  James,  and  John, 
These  be  my  priests,  the  seasning  of  the  earth 
Which  wil  not  lose  their  Savrinesse,  I  trowe. 

Not  one  of  these  (for  twentie  hundreth  groats) 
Wil  teach  the  text  that  byddes  him  take  a  wife, 
And  yet  be  combred  with  a  concubine. 

Not  one  of  these  wil  reade  the  holy  writ 
Which  doth  forbid  all  greedy  usurie, 
And  yet  receive  a  shilling  for  a  pounde. 

Not  one  of  these  wil  preach  of  patience, 
And  yet  be  found  as  angry  as  a  waspe, 

Not  one  of  these  can  be  content  to  sit 
In  Taverns,  Innes,  or  Alehouses  all  day, 
But  spends  his  time  devoutly  at  his  booke. 

Not  one  of  these  will  rayle  at  rulers  wrongs, 
And  yet  be  blotted  with  extortion. 

Not  one  of  these  will  paint  out  worldly  pride. 
And  he  himselfe  as  gallaunt  as  he  dare. 

Not  one  of  these  rebuketh  avarice, 
And  yet  procureth  proude  pluralities. 

Not  one  of  these,  reproveth  vanitie 
(Whiles  he  himselfe  with  hauke  upon  his  fist 
And  houndes  at  heele, )  doth  quite  forget  his  text. 


THE   STEEL   GLASS  103 

Not  one  of  these  corrects  contentions, 

For  trifling  things  and  yet  will  sue  for  tythes. 

Not  one  of  these  (not  one  of  these  my  Lord) 
Wil  be  ashamde  to  do  even  as  he  teacheth. 

My  priests  have  learnt  to  pray  unto  the  Lord, 
And  yet  they  trust  not  in  their  lip  labour. 

My  priests  can  fast,  and  use  all  abstinence, 
From  vice  and  sinne,  and  yet  refuse  no  meats. 

My  priests  can  give  in  charitable  wise, 
And  love  also  to  do  good  almes  dedes, 
Although  they  trust  not  in  their  owne  deserts. 

My  prlestes  can  place  all  penaunce  in  the  heart, 
Without  regard  of  outward  ceremonies. 

My  priests  can  keepe  their  temples  undefyled, 
And  yet  defie  all  Superstition. 

Lo  now  my  Lorde,  what  thinke  you  by  my  priests? 

Although  they  were  the  last  that  shewed  themselves, 

1  saide  at  first  their  office  was  to  pray, 

And  since  the  time  is  such  even  now  a  dayes, 

As  hath  great  nede  of  prayers  truely  prayde, 

Come  forth  my  priests,  and  I  wiil  bydde  your  beades. 

I  wil  presume,  (although  I  be  no  priest) 

To  bidde  you  pray  as  Paule  and  Peter  prayde. 

Then  pray  my  priests,  yea  pray  to  god  himselfe, 
That  he  vouchsafe,  (even  for  his  Christes  sake) 
To  give  his  word  free  passage  here  on  earth, 
And  that  his  church  (which  now  is  Militant) 
May  soone  be  sene  triumphant  over  all, 
And  that  he  deigne  to  ende  this  wicked  world, 
Which  walloweth  stil  in  Sinks  of  filthy  sinne. 

Eke  pray  my  priests  for  Princes  and  for  Kings, 
Emperours,  Monarks,  Dukes,  and  all  estates, 
Which  sway  the  sworde  of  royal  government, 
(Of  whom  our  Queene  which  lives  without  compare 
Must  be  the  chiefe  in  bydding  of  my  beades, 


io4  GEORGE  GASCOIGNE 

Else  I  deserve  to  lese  both  beades  and  bones) 
That  God  give  light  unto  their  noble  mindes, 
To  maintaine  truth  and  therwith  stil  to  wey 
That  here  they  reigne  not  onely  for  themselves, 
And  that  they  be  but  slaves  to  common  welth, 
Since  all  their  toyles,  an  all  their  broken  sleeps 
Shal  scant  suffize  to  hold  it  stil  upright. 

Tell  some  (in  Spaine)  how  close  they  kepe  their  closets, 
How  selde  the  winde  doth  blow  upon  their  cheeks, 
While  as  (mene  while)  their  sunburnt  suitors  starve 
And  pine  before  their  processe  be  preferrde. 
Then  pray  (my  priests)  that  god  wil  give  his  grace, 
To  such  a  prince  his  fault  in  time  to  mende. 

Tel  some  (in  France)  how  much  they  love  to  dance, 
While  suitors  daunce  attendaunce  at  the  dore. 
Yet  pray  (my  priests)  for  prayers  princes  mende. 

Tel  some  (in  Portugale,)  how  colde  they  be, 

In  setting  forth  of  right  religion : 

Which  more  esteme  the  present  pleasures  here, 

Then  stablishing  of  God  his  holy  worde. 

And  pray  (my  Priests)  least  god  such  princes  spit. 

And  vomit  them  out  of  his  angrie  mouth. 

Tel  some  (Italian)  princes,  how  they  winke 
At  stinking  stewes,  and  say  they  are  (forsooth) 
A  remedy,  to  quenche  foule  filthy  luste  : 
When  as  (in  dede  they  be  the  sinkes  of  sinne. 
And  pray  (my  priests)  that  God  will  not  impute 
Such  wilful  facts,  unto  such  princes  charge, 
When  he  himselfe  commaundeth  every  man 
To  do  none  ill  that  good  may  grow  therby. 

And  pray  likewise  for  all  that  rulers  be 

By  kings  commaundes,  as  their  lieftenants  here, 

All  magistrates,  all  councellours,  and  all 

That  sit  in  office  or  Authoritie. 

Pray,  pray,  (my  priests)  that  neither  love  nor  mede 

Do  sway  their  minds  from  furdering  of  rights 


THE   STEEL   GLASS  105 

That  they  be  not,  too  saintish  nor  too  sowre, 

But  beare  the  bridle  evenly  betwene  both, 

That  stil  they  stoppe  one  eare  to  heare  him  speake, 

Which  is  accused  absent  as  he  is: 

That  evermore  they  mark  what  moode  doth  move 

The  mouth  which  makes  the  information, 

That  faults  forpaste  (so  that  they  be  not  huge, 

Nor  do  exceed  the  bonds  of  loyaltie) 

Do  never  quench  ther  charitable  minde, 

When  as  they  see  repentance  hold  the  reines 

Of  heady  youth,  which  wont  to  runne  astray. 

That  malice  make  no  mansion  in  their  minds, 

Nor  envy  frete,  to  see  how  vertue  clymes. 

The  greater  Birth,  the  greater  glory  sure, 

If  deeds  mainteine  their  auncestors  degree. 

Eke  pray  (my  Priests)  for  them  and  for  yourselves, 

For  Bishops,  Prelats,  Archdeanes,  deanes,  and  Priests 

And  all  that  preach  or  otherwise  professe 

Gods  holy  word,  and  take  the  cure  of  soules. 

Pary  pray  that  you,  and  every  one  of  you, 

Maye  walke  upright  in  your  vocation. 

And  that  you  shine  like  lamps  of  perfect  life, 

To  lende  a  light  and  lanterne  to  our  feete. 

Say  therwithal,  that  some,  (I  see  them,  I, 
Whereas  they  fling,  in  Flaunders  all  afarre, 
For  why  my  glasse  wil  shew  them  as  they  be) 
Do  neither  care,  for  God  nor  yet  for  devill, 
So  libertie  may  launch  about  at  large. 

And  some  again  (I  see  them  well  enough 

And  note  their  names  in  Liegelande  where  they  lurke) 

Under  pretence,  of  holy  humble  harts 

Would  plucke  adowne  all  princely  Dyademe. 

Pray,  pray  (my  priests)  for  these,  they  touch  you  neere. 

Shrinke  not  to  say,  that  some  do  (Romainelike) 

Esteme  their  pall  and  habyte  overmuche. 

And  therfore  pray  (my  priests)  lest  pride  prevaile. 


io6  ■     GEORGE   GASCOIGNE 

Pray  that  the  soules  of  sundrie  damned  ghosts 

Do  not  come  in  and  bring  good  evidence 

Before  the  God  which  judgeth  al  mens  thoughts, 

Of  some  whose  welth  made  them  neglect  their  charge 

Til  secret  sinnes  (untoucht)  infecte  their  flocks 

And  bredde  a  scab  which  brought  the  sheep  to  bane. 

Some  other  ranne  before  the  greedy  woolfe, 

And  left  the  folde,  unfended  from  the  fox 

Which  durst  not  barke  nor  bawle  for  both  theyr  eares. 

Then  pray  (my  priests)  that  such  no  more  do  so. 

Pray  for  the  nources  of  our  noble  Realme, 
I  meane  the  worthy  Universities, 
(And  Cantabridge,sha\.  have  the  dignitie, 
Wherof  I  was  unworthy  member  once) 
That  they  bring  up  their  babes  in  decent  wise: 
That  Philosophy  smel  no  secret  smoke, 
Which  Magike  makes  in  wicked  mysteries: 
That  Logike  leape  not  over  every  stile, 
Before  he  come  a  furlong  neare  the  hedge, 
With  curious  Quids,  to  maintain  argument. 
That  Sophistrie,  do  not  deceive  it  selfe, 
That  Cosmography  keepe  his  compasse  wel, 
And  such  as  be  Historiographers, 
Trust  not  too  much  in  every  tatlying  tong, 
Nor  blynded  be  by  partialitie. 
That  Phisicke  thrive  not  over  fast  by  murder: 
That  Numbring  men  in  all  their  evens  and  odds 
Do  not  forget,  that  only  Unitie 
Unmeasurable,  infinite,  and  one. 
That  Geometrie,  measure  not  so  long, 
Till  all  their  measures  out  of  measure  be: 
That  Musike  with  his  heavenly  harmonie, 
Do  not  allure  a  heavenly  minde  from  heaven. 
Nor  set  mens  thoughts  in  worldly  melodie, 
Til  heavenly  Hierarchies  be  quite  forgot: 
That  Rhetorick  learne  not  to  overreache : 
That  Poetrie  presume  not  for  to  preache, 
And  bite  mens  faults  with  Satyres  corosives, 


THE   STEEL  GLASS  307 

Yet  pamper  up  her  own  with  poultesses: 

Or  that  she  dote  not  uppon  Erato, 

Which  should  invoke  the  good  Caliope  : 

That  Astrologie  iooke  not  over  high, 

And  light  (meane  while)  in  every  pudled  pit : 

That  Grammer  grudge  not  at  our  English  tong, 

Bycause  it  stands  by  Monosyllables 

And  cannot  be  declined  as  others  are. 

Pray  thus  (my  priests)  for  universities. 

And  if  I  have  forgotten  any  Arte, 

Which  hath  bene  taught,  or  exercised  there, 

Pray  you  to  God,  the  good  be  not  abused, 

With  glorious  shewe  of  overloding  skill. 

Now  these  be  past,  (my  priests)  yet  shal  you  pray 

For  common  people,  eche  in  his  degree, 

That  God  vouchsafe  to  graunt  them  al  his  grace. 

Where  should  I  now  beginne  to  bidde  my  beades? 

Or  who  shal  first  be  put  in  common  place? 

My  wittes  bewearie,  and  my  eyes  are  dymme, 

I  cannot  see  who  best  deserves  the  roome, 

Stand  forth  good  Pierce,  thou  plowman  by  thy  name. 

Yet  so  the  Sayler  saith  I  do  him  wrong : 

That  one  contends  his  paines  are  without  peere, 

That  other  saith,  that  none  be  like  to  his, 

In  dede  they  labour  both  exceedingly. 

But  since  I  see  no  shipman  that  can  live 

Without  the  plough,  and  yet  I  many  see 

(Which  live  by  lande)  that  never  sawe  the  seas: 

Therefore  I  say,  stand  forth  Pierce  plowman  first, 

Thou  winst  the  roome  by  verie  worthinesse. 

Behold  him  (priests)  and  though  he  stink  of  sweat 
Disdaine  him  not:  for  shal  I  tel  you  what? 
Such  clime  to  heaven  befc  re  the  shaven  crownes. 
But  how?  forsooth,  with  true  humilytie. 
Not  that  they  hoord  their  grain  when  it  is  cheape, 
Nor  that  they  kill  the  calfe  to  have  the  milke, 
Nor  that  they  set  debate  betwene  their  lords, 
By  earing  up  the  balks  that  part  their  bounds : 
Nor  for  because  they  can  both  crowche  and  creep 


Io8  GEORGE   GASCOIGNE 

(The  guilefulst  men  that  ever  God  yet  made) 
When  as  they  meane  most  mischiefe  and  deceite, 
Nor  that  they  can  crie  out  on  landelordes  lowde, 
And  say  they  racke  their  rents  an  ace  to  high, 
When  they  themselves  do  sell  their  landlords  lambe 
For  greater  price  than  ewe  was  wont  be  worth. 
I  see  you  Pierce,  my  glasse  was  lately  scowrde. 
But  for  they  feed  with  frutes  of  their  gret  paines, 
Both  King  and  Knight,  and  priests  in  cloyster  pent: 
Therefore  I  say  that  sooner  some  of  them 
Shal  scale  the  walles  which  leade  us  up  to  heaven, 
Than  cornfed  beasts  whose  bellie  is  their  God, 
Although  they  preach,  of  more  perfection. 

And  yet  (my  priests)  pray  you  to  God  for  Pierce^ 
As  Pierce  can  pinch  it  out  for  him  and  you. 
And  if  you  have  a  Paternoster  spare 
Then  shal  you  pray,  for  Saylers  (God  them  send 
More  mind  of  him  when  as  they  come  to  lande, 
For  towarde  shipwracke  many  men  can  pray) 
That  they  once  learne  to  speake  without  a  lye, 
And  meane  good  faith  without  blaspheming  oathes : 
That  they  forget  to  steale  from  every  freight, 
And  for  to  forge  false  cockets,  free  to  passe, 
That  manners  make  them  give  their  betters  place, 
And  use  good  words  though  deeds  be  nothing  gay. 

But  here  me  thinks,  my  priests  begin  to  frowne, 
And  say  that  thus  they  shal  be  overchargde, 
To  pray  for  all  which  seme  to  do  amisse : 
And  one  I  heare,  more  saucie  than  the  rest, 
Which  asketh  me,  when  shal  our  prayers  end? 
I  tel  thee  (priest)  when  shoomakers  make  shoes, 
That  are  wel  sowed  with  never  a  stich  amisse, 
And  use  no  craf te  in  uttring  of  the  same : 
When  Taylours  steale  no  stuffe  from  gentlemen, 
When  Tanners  are,  with  Curriers  well  agreede, 
And  both  so  dresse  their  hydes  that  we  go  dry. 
When  Cutlers  leave  to  sel  olde  rustie  blades, 
And  hide  no  crackes  with  soder  nor  deceit : 
When  tinkers  make  no  more  holes  than  they  founde, 


THE   STEEL   GLASS  109 

When  thatchers  thinke  their  wages  worth  their  worke, 
When  colliers  put  no  dust  into  their  sacks, 
When  maltemen  make  us  drink  no  furmentye, 
When  Davie  Diker  diggs,  and  dallies  not, 
When  smithes  shoo  horses  as  they  would  be  shod, 
When  millers  toll  not  with  a  golden  thumbe, 
When  bakers  make  not  barme  beare  price  of  wheat, 
When  brewers  put  no  bagage  in  their  beere, 
When  butchers  blowe  not  over  all  their  fleshe, 
When  horsecorsers  beguile  no  friends  with  jades, 
When  weavers  weight  is  found  in  huswives  web. 
(But  why  dwell  I  so  long  among  these  lowts?) 

When  mercers  make  more  bones  to  swere  and  lye, 
When  vintners  mix  no  water  with  their  wine, 
When  printers  passe  no  errours  in  their  bookes, 
When  hatters  use  to  bye  no  olde  cast  robes, 
When  goldsmithes  get  no  gains  by  sodred  crownes, 
When  upholsters  sel  fethers  without  dust, 
When  pewterers  infect  no  Tin  with  leade, 
When  drapers  draw  no  gaines  by  giving  day, 
When  perchmentiers  put  in  no  ferret  Silke, 
When  Surgeons  heale  all  wounds  without  delay. 
(Tush  these  are  toys,  but  yet  my  glas  sheweth  al.) 

When  purveyours  provide  not  for  themselves, 
When  Takers  take  no  brybes  nor  use  no  brags, 
When  customers  conceale  no  covine  used, 
When  Searchers  see  all  corners  in  a  shippe, 
(And  spie  no  pens  by  any  sight  they  see) 
When  sheriffs  do  serve  all  processe  as  they  ought, 
When  baylies  strain  none  other  thing  but  strays, 
When  auditours  their  counters  cannot  change, 
When  proude  surveyours  take  no  parting  pens, 
When  silver  sticks  not  on  the  Tellers  fingers, 
And  when  receivers  pay  as  they  receive, 
When  all  these  folke  have  quite  forgotten  fraude. 

(Againe  (my  priests)  a  little  by  your  leave) 
When  Sicophants  can  finde  no  place  in  courte, 
But  are  espied  for  Ecchoes  as  they  are, 


no  THE   STEEL  GLASS 

When  roysters  ruffle  not  above  their  rule, 
Nor  colour  crafte,  by  swearing  precious  coles: 
When  Fencers  fees  are  like  to  apes  rewards, 
A  peece  of  breade  and  therwithal  a  bobbe. 
When  Lais  lives  not  like  a  ladys  peer, 
Nor  useth  art  in  dying  of  her  hare. 
When  all  these  things  are  ordred  as  they  ought, 
And  see  themselves,  within  my  glasse  of  Steele, 
Even  then  (my  priests)  may  you  make  holyday, 
And  pray  no  more  but  ordinairie  prayers. 

And  yet  therin,  I  pray  you  (my  good  priests) 
Pray  stil  for  me,  and  for  my  Glasse  of  Steele 
That  it  (nor  I)  do  any  minde  offend, 
Bycause  we  shew  all  colours  in  their  kinde. 
And  pray  for  me,  that  (since  my  hap  is  such 
To  see  men  so)  I  may  perceive  myselfe. 
O  worthy  words,  to  ende  my  worthlesse  verse, 
Pray  for  me  Priests,  I  pray  you  pray  for  me. 


Finis. 


AN    APOLOGIE    FOR    POETRIE 


BY 


SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY 


XXX 


SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY 


A  noble  life  ending  in  the  death  of  a  Christian  hero  will  keep  Sid- 
ney's memory  dear  to  lovers  of  a  beautiful  character,  touched  with  the 
genius  of  poetry.  The  verse  he  penned  is  less  attractive  than  inferior 
poems  couched  in  more  glittering  phrases.  Allowance  must  be  made 
for  the  date  at  which  he  wrote,  and  the  conditions  in  which  poetry  then 
struggled.  His  prose  has  the  higher  qualities  of  the  best  literature,  a 
noble  aim,  a  clear  utterance,  and  sound  judgment.  The  Defence  of, 
or  Apology  for,  Poetry,  is  a  splendid  vindication  of  the  poet's  claims, 
mission,  and  power. 

Sidney's  sonnets  will  always  hold  their  own  by  virtue  of  the  grace 
of  sentiment  and  expression  that  marks  them.  His  poetical  romance, 
"Arcadia,"  occupies  a  place  of  its  own  in  the  history  of  English  litera- 
ture. The  life  of  so  great  promise  and  actual  achievement  was  cut 
short  before  its  prime. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney  was  born  in  Kent  in  1554.  His'father  was  made 
Lord  President  of  Wales,  virtually  Viceroy.  At  eighteen  Philip  went 
on  the  grand  tour,  and  was  in  Paris,  concealed,  during  the  Massacre  of 
St.  Bartholomew's  Day.  In  his  twenty-third  year  Sidney  was  ap- 
pointed on  an  embassy  to  the  Emperor  of  German}'  in  the  interests  of 
Protestantism.  His  sister  Mary,  who  shared  his  gifts,  was  the  sub- 
ject of  Ben  Jonson's  famous  epitaph  on — 

Sidney's  sister,  Pembroke's  mother. 
Death,  ere  thou  hast  slain  another, 
Learn'd,  and  fair,  and  good  as  she, 
Time  shall  throw  a  dart  at  thee. 

Sidney  married  and  was  knighted  in  1583.  In  1585  Queen  Eliza- 
beth made  him  Governor  of  Flushing  during  her  expedition  to  the 
Netherlands.  At  the  battle  of  Zutphen  he  was  fatally  wounded  by  a 
musket-ball.  He  died  October  17,  1586.  His  nobility  glows  in  his 
memorable  words  as  he  refused  the  drink  of  water  his  agony  craved. 
Seeing  the  dying  look  of  a  soldier  they  were  carrying  past  as  he  was 
about  to  drink,  he  gave  him  the  water,  saying,  "Thy  necessity  is  yet 
greater  than  mine." 


112 


AN  APOLOGIE  FOR  POETRIE 


When  the  right  virtuous  Edward  Wotton  and  I  were  at 
the  Emperor's  court  together,  we  gave  ourselves  to  learn 
horsemanship  of  Gio.  Pietro  Pugliano ;  one  that,  with  great 
commendation,  had  the  place  of  an  esquire  in  his  stable; 
and  he,  according  to  the  fertileness  of  the  Italian  wit,  did 
not  only  afford  us  the  demonstration  of  his  practice,  but 
sought  to  enrich  our  minds  with  the  contemplation  therein, 
which  he  thought  most  precious.  But  with  none,  I  remem- 
ber, mine  ears  were  at  any  time  more  laden,  than  when 
(either  angered  with  slow  payment,  or  moved  with  our 
learner-like  admiration)  he  exercised  his  speech  in  the  praise 
of  his  faculty. 

He  said,  soldiers  were  the  noblest  estate  of  mankind,  and 
horsemen  the  noblest  of  soldiers.  He  said,  they  were  the 
masters  of  war  and  ornaments  of  peace,  speedy  goers,  and 
strong  abiders,  triumphers  both  in  camps  and  courts ;  nay, 
to  so  unbelieved  a  point  he  proceeded,  as  that  no  earthly 
thing  bred  such  wonder  to  a  prince,  as  to  be  a  good  horse- 
man; skill  of  government  was  but  a  « pedanteria »  in  com- 
parison. Then  would  he  add  certain  praises  by  telling  what 
a  peerless  beast  the  horse  was,  the  only  serviceable  courtier, 
without  flattery,  the  beast  of  most  beauty,  faithfulness, 
courage,  and  such  more,  that  if  I  had  not  been  a  piece  of  a 
logician  before  I  came  to  him,  I  think  he  would  have  per- 
suaded me  to  have  wished  myself  a  horse.  But  thus  much, 
at  least,  with  his  no  few  words,  he  drove  into  me,  that  self- 
love  is  better  than  any  gilding,  to  make  that  seem  gorgeous 
wherein  ourselves  be  parties. 

Wherein,  if  Pugliano 's  strong  affection  and  weak  argu- 
ments will  not  satisfy  you,  I  will  give  you  a  nearer  example 
of  myself,  who,  I  know  not  by  what  mischance,  in  these  my 
8  113 


ii4  SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY 

not  old  years  and  idlest  times,  having  slipped  into  the  title 
of  a  poet,  am  provoked  to  say  something  unto  you  in  the 
defence  of  that  my  unelected  vocation;  which  if  I  handle 
with  more  good  will  than  good  reasons,  bear  with  me,  since 
the  scholar  is  to  be  pardoned  that  followeth  the  steps  of  his 
master. 

And  yet  I  must  say,  that  as  I  have  more  just  cause  to 
make  a  pitiful  defence  of  poor  poetry,  which,  from  almost 
the  highest  estimation  of  learning,  is  fallen  to  be  the  laugh- 
ing-stock of  children ;  so  have  I  need  to  bring  some  more 
available  proofs,  since  the  former  is  by  no  man  barred  of 
his  deserved  credit,  whereas  the  silly  latter  hath  had  even 
the  names  of  philosophers  used  to  the  defacing  of  it,  with 
great  danger  of  civil  war  among  the  Muses. 

At  first,  truly,  to  all  them  that,  professing  learning,  in- 
veigh against  poetry,  may  justly  be  objected,  that  they  go 
very  near  to  ungratefulness  to  seek  to  deface  that  which,  in 
the  noblest  nations  and  languages  that  are  known,  hath 
been  the  first  light-giver  to  ignorance,  and  first  nurse,  whose 
milk  by  little  and  little  enabled  them  to  feed  afterwards 
of  tougher  knowledges.  And  will  you  play  the  hedgehog, 
that  being  received  into  the  den,  drove  out  his  host?  or 
rather  the  vipers,  that  with  their  birth  kill  their  parents? 

Let  learned  Greece,  in  any  of  her  manifold  sciences,  be 
able  to  show  me  one  book  before  Musaeus,  Homer,  and 
Hesiod,  all  three  nothing  else  but  poets.  Nay,  let  any  his- 
tory be  brought  that  can  say  any  writers  were  there  before 
them,  if  they  were  not  men  of  the  same  skill,  as  Orpheus, 
Linus,  and  some  others  are  named,  who  having  been  the 
first  of  that  country  that  made  pens  deliverers  of  their 
knowledge  to  posterity,  may  justly  challenge  to  be  called 
their  fathers  in  learning.  For  not  only  in  time  they  had 
this  priority  (although  in  itself  antiquity  be  venerable),  but 
went  before  them  as  causes  to  draw  with  their  charming 
sweetness  the  wild  untamed  wits  to  an  admiration  of  knowl- 
edge. So  as  Amphion  was  said  to  move  stones  with  his 
poetry  to  build  Thebes,  and  Orpheus  to  be  listened  to  by 
beasts,  indeed,  stony  and  beastly  people,  so  among  the  Ro- 
mans were  Livius  Andronicus,  and  Ennius ;  so  in  the  Italian 
language,  the  first  that  made  it  to  aspire  to  be  a  treasure- 


AN  APOLOGIE   FOR  POETRIE  115 

house  of  science,  were  the  poets  Dante,  Boccace,  and  Pe- 
trarch ;  so  in  our  English  were  Gower  and  Chaucer ;  after 
whom,  encouraged  and  delighted  with  their  excellent  fore- 
going, others  have  followed  to  beautify  our  mother  tongue, 
as  well  in  the  same  kind  as  other  arts. 

This  did  so  notably  show  itself  that  the  philosophers  of 
Greece  durst  not  a  long  time  appear  to  the  world  but  under 
the  mask  of  poets;  so  Thales,  Empedocles,  and  Parmenides 
sang  their  natural  philosophy  in  verses ;  so  did  Pythagoras 
and  Phocylides  their  moral  counsels ;  so  did  Tyrtaeus  in  war 
matters;  and  Solon  in  matters  of  policy;  or  rather  they, 
being  poets,  did  exercise  their  delightful  vein  in  those  points 
of  highest  knowledge,  which  before  them  lay  hidden  to  the 
world ;  for  that  wise  Solon  was  directly  a  poet  it  is  manifest, 
having  written  in  verse  the  notable  fable  of  the  Atlantic 
Island,  which  was  continued  by  Plato.  And,  truly,  even 
Plato,  whosoever  well  considereth  shall  find  that  in  the  body 
of  his  work,  though  the  inside  and  strength  were  philosophy, 
the  skin,  as  it  were,  and  beauty  depended  most  of  poetry. 
For  all  stands  upon  dialogues ;  wherein  he  feigns  many  hon- 
est burgesses  of  Athens  speaking  of  such  matters  that  if 
they  had  been  set  on  the  rack  they  would  never  have  con- 
fessed them;  besides,  his  poetical  describing  the  circum- 
stances of  their  meetings,  as  the  well-ordering  of  a  banquet, 
the  delicacy  of  a  walk,  with  interlacing  mere  tales,  as 
Gyges's  Ring,  and  others;  which,  who  knows  not  to  be 
flowers  of  poetry,  did  never  walk  into  Apollo's  garden. 

And  even  historiographers,  although  their  lips  sound  of 
things  done,  and  verity  be  written  in  their  foreheads,  have 
been  glad  to  borrow  both  fashion  and,  perchance,  weight  of 
the  poets ;  so  Herodotus  entitled  the  books  of  his  history  by 
the  names  of  the  Nine  Muses ;  and  both  he,  and  all  the  rest 
that  followed  him,  either  stole  or  usurped,  of  poetry,  their 
passionate  describing  of  passions,  the  many  particularities 
of  battles  which  no  man  could  affirm ;  or,  if  that  be  denied 
me,  long  orations,  put  in  the  mouths  of  great  kings  and 
captains,  which  it  is  certain  they  never  pronounced. 

So  that,  truly,  neither  philosopher  nor  historiographer 
could,  at  the  first,  have  entered  into  the  gates  of  popular 
judgments,  if  they  had  not  taken  a  great  disport  of  poetry ; 


n6  SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY 

which  in  all  nations,  at  this  day,  where  learning  flourisheth 
not,  is  plain  to  be  seen ;  in  all  which  they  have  some  feeling 
of  poetry.  In  Turkey,  besides  their  lawgiving  divines  they 
have  no  other  writers  but  poets.  In  our  neighbor  country 
Ireland,  where,  too,  learning  goes  very  bare,  yet  are  their 
poets  held  in  a  devout  reverence.  Even  among  the  most 
barbarous  and  simple  Indians,  where  no  writing  is,  yet  have 
they  their  poets  who  make  and  sing  songs,  which  they  call 
«Arentos,»  both  of  their  ancestors'  deeds  and  praises  of  their 
gods.  A  sufficient  probability,  that  if  ever  learning  comes 
among  them,  it  must  be  by  having  their  hard  dull  wits  soft- 
ened and  sharpened  with  the  sweet  delight  of  poetry ;  for 
until  they  find  a  pleasure  in  the  exercise  of  the  mind,  great 
promises  of  much  knowledge  will  little  persuade  them  that 
know  not  the  fruits  of  knowledge.  In  Wales,  the  true  rem- 
nant of  the  ancient  Britons,  as  there  are  good  authorities  to 
show  the  long  time  they  had  poets,  which  they  called  bards, 
so  through  all  the  conquests  of  Romans,  Saxons,  Danes,  and 
Normans,  some  of  whom  did  seek  to  ruin  all  memory  of 
learning  from  among  them,  yet  do  their  poets,  even  to  this 
day,  last ;  so  as  it  is  not  more  notable  in  the  soon  beginning 
than  in  long-continuing. 

But  since  the  authors  of  most  of  our  sciences  were  the 
Romans,  and  before  them  the  Greeks,  let  us,  a  little,  stand 
upon  their  authorities ;  but  even  so  far,  as  to  see  what  names 
they  have  given  unto  this  now  scorned  skill.  Among  the 
Romans  a  poet  was  called  «vates,»  which  is  as  much  as  a 
diviner,  foreseer,  or  prophet,  as  by  his  conjoined  words 
« vaticinium,»  and  «vaticinari,»  is  manifest;  so  heavenly  a 
title  did  that  excellent  people  bestow  upon  this  heart-ravish- 
ing knowledge !  And  so  far  were  they  carried  into  the  ad- 
miration thereof,  that  they  thought  in  the  changeable  hitting 
upon  any  such  verses,  great  foretokens  of  their  following 
fortunes  were  placed.  Whereupon  grew  the  word  of  sortes 
Virgilianas;  when,  by  sudden  opening  Virgil's  book,  they 
lighted  upon  some  verse,  as  it  is  reported  by  many,  whereof 
the  histories  of  the  Emperors'  lives  are  full.  As  of  Albinus, 
the  governor  of  our  island,  who,  in  his  childhood,  met  with 
this  verse — 

Arma  aniens  capio.  nee  sat  rationis  in  armis 


AN   APOLOGIE   FOR   POETRIE  117 

and  in  his  age  performed  it.  Although  it  were  a  very  vain 
and  godless  superstition ;  as  also  it  was,  to  think  spirits  were 
commanded  by  such  verses ;  whereupon  this  word  charms, 
derived  of  «carmina,»  cometh,  so  yet  serveth  it  to  show  the 
great  reverence  those  wits  were  held  in;  and  altogether  not 
without  ground,  since  both  the  oracles  of  Delphi  and  the 
Sibyl's  prophecies  were  wholly  delivered  in  verses;  for  that 
same  exquisite  observing  of  number  and  measure  in  the 
words,  and  that  high-flying  liberty  of  conceit  proper  to  the 
poet,  did  seem  to  have  some  divine  force  in  it. 

And  may  not  I  presume  a  little  farther  to  show  the  rea- 
sonableness of  this  word  «vates,»  and  say,  that  the  holy 
David's  Psalms  are  a  divine  poem?  If  I  do,  I  shall  not  do 
it  without  the  testimony  of  great  learned  men,  both  ancient 
and  modern.  But  even  the  name  of  Psalms  will  speak  for 
me,  which,  being  interpreted,  is  nothing  but  Songs;  then, 
that  is  fully  written  in  metre,  as  all  learned  Hebricians  agree, 
although  the  rules  be  not  yet  fully  found.  Lastly,  and  prin- 
cipally, his  handling  his  prophecy,  which  is  merely  poetical. 
For  what  else  is  the  awaking  his  musical  instruments ;  the 
often  and  free  changing  of  persons;  his  notable  prosopo- 
poeias, when  he  maketh  you,  as  it  were,  see  God  coming  in 
His  majesty;  his  telling  of  the  beasts'  joyfulness,  and  hills 
leaping ;  but  a  heavenly  poesy,  wherein,  almost,  he  showeth 
himself  a  passionate  lover  of  that  unspeakable  and  everlast- 
ing beauty,  to  be  seen  by  the  eyes  of  the  mind,  only  cleared 
by  faith?  But  truly,  now,  having  named  him,  I  fear  I  seem 
to  profane  that  holy  name,  applying  it  to  poetry,  which  is, 
among  us,  thrown  down  to  so  ridiculous  an  estimation.  But 
they  that,  with  quiet  judgments,  will  look  a  -little  deeper 
into  it,  shall  find  the  end  and  working  of  it  such,  as,  being 
rightly  applied,  deserveth  not  to  be  scourged  out  of  the 
Church  of  God. 

But  now  let  us  see  how  the  Greeks  have  named  it,  and 
how  they  deemed  of  it.  The  Greeks  named  him  jronyt^v, 
which  name  hath,  as  the  most  excellent,  gone  through  other 
languages;  it  cometh  of  this  word  tz<>u\\>,  which  is  to  make ; 
wherein,  I  know  not  whether  by  luck  or  wisdom,  we  Eng- 
lishmen have  met  with  the  Greeks  in  calling  him  «  a  maker,» 
which  name,  how  high  and  incomparable  a  title  it  is,  I  had 


n8  SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY 

rather  were  known  by  marking  the  scope  of  other  sciences, 
than  by  any  partial  allegation.  There  is  no  art  delivered 
unto  mankind  that  hath  not  the  works  of  nature  for  his 
principal  object,  without  which  they  could  not  consist,  and 
on  which  they  so  depend  as  they  become  actors  and  players, 
as  it  were,  of  what  nature  will  have  set  forth.  So  doth  the 
astronomer  look  upon  the  stars,  and  by  that  he  seeth  set 
down  what  order  nature  hath  taken  therein.  So  doth  the 
geometrician  and  arithmetician,  in  their  diverse  sorts  of 
quantities.  So  doth  the  musician,  in  times,  tell  you  which 
by  nature  agree,  which  not.  The  natural  philosopher  there- 
on hath  his  name ;  and  the  moral  philosopher  standeth  upon 
the  natural  virtues,  vices,  or  passions  of  man ;  and  follow 
nature,  saith  he,  therein,  and  thou  shalt  not  err.  The  law- 
yer saith  what  men  have  determined.  The  historian,  what 
men  have  done.  The  grammarian  speaketh  only  of  the 
rules  of  speech ;  and  the  rhetorician  and  logician,  consider- 
ing what  in  nature  will  soonest  prove  and  persuade,  thereon 
give  artificial  rules,  which  still  are  compassed  within  the  cir- 
cle of  a  question,  according  to  the  proposed  matter.  The 
physician  weigheth  the  nature  of  a  man's  body,  and  the 
nature  of  things  helpful  and  hurtful  unto  it.  And  the  meta- 
physic,  though  it  be  in  the  second  and  abstract  notions,  and 
therefore  be  counted  supernatural,  yet  doth  he,  indeed,  build 
upon  the  depth  of  nature.  Only  the  poet,  disdaining  to  be 
tied  to  any  such  subjection,  lifted  up  with  the  vigor  of  his 
own  invention,  doth  grow,  in  effect,  into  another  nature ;  in 
making  things  either  better  than  nature  bringeth  forth,  or 
quite  anew;  forms  such  as  never  were  in  nature,  as  the 
heroes,  demi-gods,  Cyclops,  chimeras,  furies,  and  such  like ; 
so  as  he  goeth  hand  in  hand  with  Nature,  not  enclosed  with- 
in the  narrow  warrant  of  her  gifts,  but  freely  ranging  within 
the  zodiac  of  his  own  wit.  Nature  never  set  forth  the  earth 
in  so  rich  tapestry  as  divers  poets  have  done ;  neither  with 
so  pleasant  rivers,  fruitful  trees,  sweet-smelling  flowers, 
nor  whatsoever  else  may  make  the  too-much-loved  earth 
more  lovely ;  her  world  is  brazen,  the  poets  only  deliver  a 
golden. 

But  let  those  things  alone,  and  go  to  man ;    for  whom  as 

the.  other  things  are,  so  it  seeroeth  ia  him  her  uttermost; 


AN   APOLOGIE   FOR   POETRIE  119 

cunning  is  employed ;  and  know,  whether  she  have  brought 
forth  so  true  a  lover  as  Theagenes ;  so  constant  a  friend  as 
Pylades ;  so  valiant  a  man  as  Orlando ;  so  right  a  prince  as 
Xenophon's  Cyrus;  and  so  excellent  a  man  every  way  as 
Virgil's  ./Eneas?  Neither  let  this  be  jestingly  conceived, 
because  the  works  of  the  one  be  essential,  the  other  in  imi- 
tation or  fiction ;  for  every  understanding  knoweth  the  skill 
of  each  artificer  standeth  in  that  idea,  or  fore-conceit  of  the 
work,  and  not  in  the  work  itself.  And  that  the  poet  hath 
that  idea  is  manifest  by  delivering  them  forth  in  such  ex- 
cellency as  he  had  imagined  them ;  which  delivering  forth, 
also,  is  not  wholly  imaginative,  as  we  are  wont  to  say  by 
them  that  build  castles  in  the  air ;  but  so  far  substantially  it 
worketh  not  only  to  make  a  Cyrus,  which  had  been  but  a 
particular  excellency,  as  nature  might  have  done;  but  to 
bestow  a  Cyrus  upon  the  world  to  make  many  Cyruses;  if 
they  will  learn  aright,  why,  and  how,  that  maker  made  him. 
Neither  let  it  be  deemed  too  saucy  a  comparison  to  balance 
the  highest  point  of  man's  wit  with  the  efficacy  of  nature; 
but  rather  give  right  honor  to  the  heavenly  Maker  of  that 
maker,  who  having  made  man  to  His  own  likeness,  set  him 
beyond  and  over  all  the  works  of  that  second  nature ;  which 
in  nothing  he  showeth  so  much  as  in  poetry ;  when,  with  the 
force  of  a  divine  breath,  he  bringeth  things  forth  surpassing 
her  doings,  with  no  small  arguments  to  the  incredulous  of 
that  first  accursed  fall  of  Adam ;  since  our  erected  wit  mak- 
eth  us  know  what  perfection  is,  and  yet  our  infected  will 
keepeth  us  from  reaching  unto  it.  But  these  arguments 
will  by  few  be  understood,  and  by  fewer  granted;  thus 
much  I  hope  will  be  given  me,  that  the  Greeks,  with  some 
probability  of  reason,  gave  him  the  name  above  all  names 
of  learning. 

Now  let  us  go  to  a  more  ordinary  opening  of  him,  that 
the  truth  may  be  the  more  palpable ;  and  so,  I  hope,  though 
we  get  not  so  unmatched  a  praise  as  the  etymology  of  his 
names  will  grant,  yet  his  very  description,  which  no  man 
will  deny,  shall  not  justly  be  barred  from  a  principal  com- 
mendation. 

Poesy,  therefore,  is  an  art  of  imitation ;  for  so  Aristotle 
terraeth  it  in  the  word  /^/^c?;  that  is  to  say,  a  representing, 


i2o  SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY 

counterfeiting,  or  figuring  forth :  to  speak  metaphorically, 
a  speaking  picture,  with  this  end,  to  teach  and  delight. 

Of  this  have  been  three  general  kinds :  the  chief,  both  in 
antiquity  and  excellency,  where  they  that  did  imitate  the 
inconceivable  excellencies  of  God;  such  were  David  in  the 
Psalms;  Solomon  in  the  Song  of  Songs,  in  his  Ecclesiastes, 
and  Proverbs ;  Moses  and  Deborah  in  their  hymns ;  and  the 
writer  of  Job;  which,  beside  others,  the  learned  Emanuel 
Tremellius  and  Fr.  Junius  do  entitle  the  poetical  part  of 
the  Scripture ;  against  these  none  will  speak  that  hath  the 
Holy  Ghost  in  due  holy  reverence.  In  this  kind,  though 
in  a  wrong  divinity,  were  Orpheus,  Amphion,  Homer  in 
his  hymns,  and  many  others,  both  Greeks  and  Romans, 
And  this  poesy  must  be  used  by  whosoever  will  follow  St 
Paul's  counsel,  in  singing  psalms  when  they  are  merry; 
and  I  know  is  used  with  the  fruit  of  comfort  by  some,  when, 
in  sorrowful  pangs  of  their  death-bringing  sins,  they  find 
the  consolation  of  the  never-leaving  goodness. 

The  second  kind  is  of  them  that  deal  with  matter  philo- 
sophical; either  moral,  as  Tyrtaeus,  Phocylides,  Cato;  or, 
natural,  as  Lucretius,  Virgil's  Georgics;  or  astronomical,  as 
Manilius  and  Pontanus ;  or  historical,  as  Lucan ;  which  who 
mislike,  the  fault  is  in  their  judgment,  quite  out  of  taste, 
and  not  in  the  sweet  food  of  sweetly  uttered  knowledge. 

But  because  this  second  sort  is  wrapped  within  the  fold 
of  the  proposed  subject,  and  takes  not  the  free  course  of  his 
own  invention ;  whether  they  properly  be  poets  or  no,  let 
grammarians  dispute,  and  go  to  the  third,  indeed  right 
poets,  of  whom  chiefly  this  question  ariseth;  betwixt  whom 
and  these  second  is  such  a  kind  of  difference,  as  betwixt  the 
meaner  sort  of  painters,  who  counterfeit  only  such  faces  as 
are  set  before  them ;  and  the  more  excellent,  who  having  no 
law  but  wit,  bestow  that  in  colors  upon  you  which  is  fittest 
for  the  eye  to  see ;  as  the  constant,  though  lamenting  look 
of  Lucretia,  when  she  punished  in  herself  another's  fault; 
wherein  he  painteth  not  Lucretia,  whom  he  never  saw,  but 
painteth  the  outward  beauty  of  such  a  virtue.  For  these 
three  be  they  which  most  properly  do  imitate  to  teach  and 
delight;  and  to  imitate,  borrow  nothing  of  what  is,  hath 
been,  or  shall  be ;   but  range  only,  reined  with  learned  dis- 


AN   APOLOGIE   FOR   POETRIE  121 

cretion,  into  the  divine  consideration  of  what  may  be,  and 
should  be.  These  be  they,  that,  as  the  first  and  most  noble 
sort,  may  justly  be  termed  «  vates  » ;  so  these  are  waited  on 
in  the  excellentest  languages  and  best  understandings,  with 
the  fore-described  name  of  poets.  For  these,  indeed,  do 
merely  make  to  imitate,  and  imitate  both  to  delight  and 
teach,  and  delight  to  move  men  to  take  that  goodness  in 
hand,  which,  without  delight  they  would  fly  as  from  a 
stranger;  and  teach  to  make  them  know  that  goodness 
whereunto  they  are  moved ;  which  being  the  noblest  scope 
to  which  ever  any  learning  was  directed,  yet  want  there 
not  idle  tongues  to  bark  at  them. 

These  be  subdivided  into  sundry  more  special  denomina- 
tions; the  most  notable  be  the  heroic,  lyric,  tragic,  comic, 
satyric,  iambic,  elegiac,  pastoral,  and  certain  others;  some 
of  these  being  termed  according  to  the  matter  they  deal 
with ;  some  by  the  sort  of  verse  they  like  best  to  write  in ; 
for,  indeed,  the  greatest  part  of  poets  have  apparelled  their 
poetical  inventions  in  that  numerous  kind  of  writing  which 
is  called  verse.  Indeed,  but  apparelled  verse,  being  but  an 
ornament,  and  no  cause  to  poetry,  since  there  have  been 
many  most  excellent  poets  that  never  versified,  and  now 
swarm  many  versifiers  that  need  never  answer  to  the  name 
of  poets.  For  Xenophon,  who  did  imitate  so  excellently  as 
to  give  us  effigicm  justi  imperii,  the  portraiture  of  a  just  em- 
pire, under  the  name  of  Cyrus,  as  Cicero  saith  of  him,  made 
therein  an  absolute  heroical  poem.  So  did  Heliodorus,  in 
his  sugared  invention  of  that  picture  of  love  in  Theagenes 
and  Chariclea ;  and  yet  both  these  wrote  in  prose ;  which 
I  speak  to  show,  that  it  is  not  rhyming  and  versing  that 
maketh  a  poet  (no  more  than  a  long  gown  maketh  an  advo- 
cate, who,  though  he  pleaded  in  armor  should  be  an  advo- 
cate and  no  soldier) ;  but  it  is  that  feigning  notable  images 
of  virtues,  vices,  or  what  else,  with  that  delightful  teaching, 
which  must  be  the  right  describing  note  to  know  a  poet  by. 
Although,  indeed,  the  senate  of  poets  have  chosen  verse  as 
their  fittest  raiment ;  meaning,  as  in  matter  they  passed  all 
in  all,  so  in  manner  to  go  beyond  them ;  not  speaking  table 
talk  fashion,  or  like  men  in  a  dream,  words  as  they  chance- 
ably  fall  from  the  mouth,  but  piecing  each  syllable  of  each 


122  SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY 

word  by  just  proportion,  according  to  the  dignity  of  the 
subject. 

Now,  therefore,  it  shall  not  be  amiss,  first,  to  weight  this 
latter  sort  of  poetry  by  his  works,  and  then  by  his  parts ; 
and  if  in  neither  of  these  anatomies  he  be  commendable,  I 
hope  we  shall  receive  a  more  favorable  sentence.  This  puri- 
fying of  wit,  this  enriching  of  memory,  enabling  of  judg- 
ment, and  enlarging  of  conceit,  which  commonly  we  call 
learning,  under  what  name  soever  it  come  forth,  or  to  what 
immediate  end  soever  it  be  directed;  the  final  end  is,  to 
lead  and  draw  us  to  as  high  a  perfection  as  our  degenerate 
souls,  made  worse  by  their  clay  lodgings,  can  be  capable 
of.  This,  according  to  the  inclination  of  man,  bred  many 
formed  impressions;  for  some  that  thought  this  felicity 
principally  to  be  gotten  by  knowledge,  and  no  knowledge  to 
be  so  high  or  heavenly  as  to  be  acquainted  with  the  stars, 
gave  themselves  to  astronomy;  others,  persuading  them- 
selves to  be  demi-gods,  if  they  knew  the  causes  of  things, 
became  natural  and  supernatural  philosophers.  Some  an 
admirable  delight  drew  to  music,  and  some  the  certainty  of 
demonstrations  to  the  mathematics ;  but  all,  one  and  other, 
having  this  scope  to  know,  and  by  knowledge  to  lift  up  the 
mind  from  the  dungeon  of  the  body  to  the  enjoying  his  own 
divine  essence.  But  when,  by  the  balance  of  experience,  it 
was  found  that  the  astronomer,  looking  to  the  stars,  might 
fall  in  a  ditch;  that  the  inquiring  philosopher  might  be 
blind  in  himself;  and  the  mathematician  might  draw  forth 
a  straight  line  with  a  crooked  heart ;  then  lo !  did  proof,  the 
over-ruler  of  opinions,  make  manifest  that  all  these  are  but 
serving  sciences,  which,  as  they  have  a  private  end  in  them- 
selves, so  yet  are  they  all  directed  to  the  highest  end  of  the 
mistress  knowledge,  by  the  Greeks  called  dpyiTsxrovixTj,  which 
stands,  as  I  think,  in  the  knowledge  of  a  man's  self;  in  the 
ethic  and  politic  consideration,  with  the  end  of  well  doing, 
and  not  of  well  knowing  only;  even  as  the  saddler's  next 
end  is  to  make  a  good  saddle,  but  his  farther  end  to  serve  a 
nobler  faculty,  which  is  horsemanship;  so  the  horseman's  to 
soldiery ;  and  the  soldier  not  only  to  have  the  skill,  but  to 
perform  the  practice  of  a  soldier.  So  that  the  ending  end 
of  all  earthly  learning  being  virtuous  action,  those  skills  that 


AN   APOLOGIE   FOR   POETRIE  123 

most  serve  to  bring  forth  that  have  a  most  just  title  to  be 
princes  over  all  the  rest ;  wherein,  if  we  can  show  it  rightly, 
the  poet  is  worthy  to  have  it  before  any  other  competitors. 

Among  whom  principally  to  challenge  it,  step  forth  the 
moral  philosophers ;  whom,  methinks,  I  see  coming  toward 
me  with  a  sullen  gravity  (as  though  they  could  not  abide  vice 
by  daylight),  rudely  clothed,  for  to  witness  outwardly  their 
contempt  of  outward  things,  with  books  in  their  hands 
against  glory,  whereto  they  set  their  names ;  sophistically 
speaking  against  subtlety,  and  angry  with  any  man  in  whom 
they  see  the  foul  fault  of  anger.  These  men,  casting  lar- 
gesses as  they  go$  of  definitions,  divisions,  and  distinctions, 
with  a  scornful  interrogative  do  soberly  ask :  Whether  it  be 
possible  to  find  any  path  so  ready  to  lead  a  man  to  virtue, 
as  that  which  teacheth  what  virtue  is;  and  teacheth  it  not 
only  by  delivering  forth  his  very  being,  his  causes  and 
effects ;  but  also  by  making  known  his  enemy,  vice,  which 
must  be  destroyed;  and  his  cumbersome  servant,  passion, 
which  must  be  mastered,  by  showing  the  generalities  that 
contain  it,  and  the  specialities  that  are  derived  from  it; 
lastly,  by  plain  setting  down  how  it  extends  itself  out  of  the 
limits  of  a  man's  own  little  world,  to  the  government  of 
families,  and  maintaining  of  public  societies? 

The  historian  scarcely  gives  leisure  to  the  moralist  to  say 
so  much,  but  that  he  (laden  with  old  mouse-eaten  records, 
authorizing  himself,  for  the  most  part,  upon  other  histories, 
whose  greatest  authorities  are  built  upon  the  notable  founda- 
tion of  hearsay,  having  much  ado  to  accord  differing  writers, 
and  to  pick  truth  out  of  partiality ;  better  acquainted  with  a 
thousand  years  ago  than  with  the  present  age,  and  yet  bet- 
ter knowing  how  this  world  goes  than  how  his  own  wit  runs; 
curious  for  antiquities,  and  inquisitive  of  novelties,  a  won- 
der to  young  folks,  and  a  tyrant  in  table-talk)  denieth,  in  a 
great  chafe,  that  any  man  for  teaching  of  virtue  and  virtu- 
ous actions,  is  comparable  to  him.  I  am  «  Testis  temporum, 
lux  veritatis,  vita  memoriae,  magistra  vitse,  nuncia  vetus- 
tatis.w1  The  philosopher,  saith  he,  teacheth  a  disputative 
virtue,  but  I  do  an  active;   his  virtue  is  excellent  in  the 

1  "Witness  of  the  times,  light  of  truth,  life  of  memory,  mistress  of 
Ufe,  messenger  of  antiquity. "—Cicero,  "De  Orators," 


124  SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY 

dangerous  academy  of  Plato,  but  mine  showeth  forth  her 
honorable  face  in  the  battles  of  Marathon,  Pharsalia,  Poic- 
tiers,  and  Agincourt :  he  teacheth  virtue  by  certain  abstract 
considerations;  but  I  only  bid  you  follow  the  footing  of 
them  that  have  gone  before  you :  old-aged  experience  goeth 
beyond  the  fine-witted  philosopher;  but  I  give  the  expe- 
rience of  many  ages.  Lastly,  if  he  make  the  song  book,  I 
put  the  learner's  hand  to  the  lute ;  and  if  he  be  the  guide, 
I  am  the  light.  Then  would  he  allege  you  innumerable 
examples,  confirming  story  by  stories,  how  much  the  wisest 
senators  and  princes  have  been  directed  by  the  credit  of 
history,  as  Brutus,  Alphonsus  of  Aragon  (and  who  not?  if 
need  be).  At  length,  the  long  line  of  their  disputation 
makes  a  point  in  this,  that  the  one  giveth  the  precept,  and 
the  other  the  example. 

Now  whom  shall  we  find,  since  the  question  standeth  for 
the  highest  form  in  the  school  of  learning,  to  be  moderator? 
Truly,  as  me  seemeth,  the  poet;  and  if  not  a  moderator, 
even  the  man  that  ought  to  carry  the  title  from  them  both, 
and  much  more  from  all  other  serving  sciences.  Therefore 
compare  we  the  poet  with  the  historian,  and  with  the  moral 
philosopher;  and  if  he  go  beyond  them  both,  no  other 
human  skill  can  match  him ;  for  as  for  the  Divine,  with  all 
reverence,  he  is  ever  to  be  excepted,  not  only  for  having  his 
scope  as  far  beyond  any  of  these,  as  eternity  exceedeth  a 
moment,  but  even  for  passing  each  of  these  in  themselves ; 
and  for  the  lawyer,  though  « Jus »  be  the  daughter  of  Jus- 
tice, the  chief  of  virtues,  yet  because  he  seeks  to  make  men 
good  rather  «formidine  poena? »  than  «virtutis  amore,»  or, 
to  say  righter,  doth  not  endeavor  to  make  men  good,  but 
that  their  evil  hurt  not  others,  having  no  care,  so  he  be  a 
good  citizen,  how  bad  a  man  he  be :  therefore,  as  our  wick- 
edness maketh  him  necessary,  and  necessity  maketh  him 
honorable,  so  is  he  not  in  the  deepest  truth  to  stand  in  rank 
with  these,  who  all  endeavor  to  take  naughtiness  away,  and 
plant  goodness  even  in  the  secretest  cabinet  of  our  souls. 
And  these  four  are  all  that  any  way  deal  in  the  considera- 
tion of  men's  manners,  which  being  the  supreme  knowledge, 
they  that  best  breed  it  deserve  the  best  commendation. 

The  philosopher,   therefore,   and  the  historian  are  they 


AN   APOLOGIE   FOR   POETRIE  125 

which  would  win  the  goal,  the  one  by  precept,  the  other  by 
example;  but  both,  not  having  both,  do  both  halt.  For 
the  philosopher,  setting  down  with  thorny  arguments  the 
bare  rule,  is  so  hard  of  utterance,  and  so  misty  to  be  con- 
ceived, that  one  that  hath  no  other  guide  but  him  shall  wade 
in  him  until  he  be  old,  before  he  shall  find  sufficient  cause 
to  be  honest.  For  his  knowledge  standeth  so  upon  the 
abstract  and  general,  that  happy  is  that  man  who  may  un- 
derstand him,  and  more  happy  that  can  apply  what  he  doth 
understand.  On  the  other  side  the  historian,  wanting  the 
precept,  is  so  tied,  not  to  what  should  be,  but  to  what  is ;  to 
the  particular  truth  of  things,  and  not  to  the  general  reason 
of  things;  that  his  example  draweth  no  necessary  con- 
sequence, and  therefore  a  less  fruitful  doctrine. 

Now  doth  the  peerless  poet  perform  both ;  for  whatsoever 
the  philosopher  saith  should  be  done,  he  giveth  a  perfect 
picture  of  it,  by  some  one  by  whom  he  pre-supposeth  it  was 
done,  so  as  he  coupleth  the  general  notion  with  the  particu- 
lar example.  A  perfect  picture,  I  say ;  for  he  yieldeth  to 
the  powers  of  the  mind  an  image  of  that  whereof  the  philos- 
opher bestoweth  but  a  wordish  description,  which  doth 
neither  strike,  pierce,  nor  possess  the  sight  of  the  soul,  so 
much  as  that  other  doth.  For  as,  in  outward  things,  to  a 
man  that  had  never  seen  an  elephant,  or  a  rhinoceros,  who 
should  tell  him  most  exquisitely  all  their  shape,  color,  big- 
ness, and  particular  marks?  or  of  a  gorgeous  palace,  an 
architect,  who,  declaring  the  full  beauties,  might  well  make 
the  hearer  able  to  repeat,  as  it  were,  by  rote,  all  he  had 
heard,  )Tet  should  never  satisfy  his  inward  conceit,  with 
being  witness  to  itself  of  a  true  living  knowledge ;  but  the 
same  man,  as  soon  as  he  might  see  those  beasts  well  painted, 
or  that  house  well  in  model,  should  straightway  grow,  with- 
out need  of  any  description,  to  a  judicial  comprehending  of 
them;  so,  no  doubt,  the  philosopher,  with  his  learned  defi- 
nitions, be  it  of  virtue  or  vices,  matters  of  public  policy  or 
private  government,  replenisheth  the  memory  with  many 
infallible  grounds  of  wisdom,  which,  notwithstanding,  lie 
dark  before  the  imaginative  and  judging  power,  if  they  be  not 
illuminated  or  figured  forth  by  the  speaking  picture  of  poesy. 

Tully  taketh  much  pains,  and  many  times  not  without 


126  SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY 

poetical  help,  to  make  us  know  the  force  love  of  our  country 
hath  in  us.  Let  us  but  hear  old  Anchises,  speaking  in  the 
midst  of  Troy's  flames,  or  see  Ulysses,  in  the  fulness  of  all 
Calypso's  delights,  bewail  his  absence  from  barren  and  beg- 
garly Ithaca.  Anger,  the  Stoics  said,  was  a  short  madness ; 
let  but  Sophocles  bring  you  Ajax  on  a  stage,  killing  or 
whipping  sheep  and  oxen,  thinking  them  the  army  of  Greeks, 
with  their  chieftains  Agamemnon  and  Menelaus;  and  tell 
me,  if  you  have  not  a  more  familiar  insight  into  anger,  than 
finding  in  the  schoolmen  his  genus  and  difference?  See 
whether  wisdom  and  temperance  in  Ulysses  and  Diomedes, 
valor  in  Achilles,  friendship  in  Nisus  and  Euryalus,  even  to 
an  ignorant  man,  carry  not  an  apparent  shining;  and,  con- 
trarily,  the  remorse  of  conscience  in  CEdipus;  the  soon- 
repenting  pride  in  Agamemnon ;  the  self-devouring  cruelty 
in  his  father  Atreus ;  the  violence  of  ambition  in  the  two 
Theban  brothers;  the  sour  sweetness  of  revenge  in  Medea; 
and,  to  fall  lower,  the  Terentian  Gnatho,  and  our  Chaucer's 
Pandar,  so  expressed,  that  we  now  use  their  names  to  sig- 
nify their  trades ;  and  finally,  all  virtues,  vices,  and  passions 
so  in  their  own  natural  states  laid  to  the  view,  that  we  seem 
not  to  hear  of  them,  but  clearly  to  see  through  them? 

But  even  in  the  most  excellent  determination  of  goodness, 
what  philosopher's  counsel  can  so  readily  direct  a  prince 
as  the  feigned  Cyrus  in  Xenophon?  Or  a  virtuous  man  in 
all  fortunes,  as  .^Eneas  in  Virgil?  Or  a  whole  common- 
wealth, as  the  way  of  Sir  Thomas  More's  Utopia?  I  say  the 
way,  because  where  Sir  Thomas  More  erred,  it  was  the  fault 
of  the  man,  and  not  of  the  poet ;  for  that  way  of  patterning 
a  commonwealth  was  most  absolute,  though  he,  perchance, 
hath  not  so  absolutely  performed  it.  For  the  question  is, 
whether  the  feigned  image  of  poetry,  or  the  regular  instruc- 
tion of  philosophy,  hath  the  more  force  in  teaching.  Where- 
in, if  the  philosophers  have  more  rightly  showed  themselves 
philosophers,  than  the  poets  have  attained  to  the  high  top 
of  their  profession  (as  in  truth, 

"Mediocribus  esse  poetis 
Non  Di,  non  homines,  non  concessere  columnae,"1) 
'Horace's  "Ars  Poetica,"  lines  372-3.     But  Horace   wrote   "Non 
homines,  non  Di " — "  Neither  men,  gods,  nor  lettered  columns  have 
admitted  mediocrity  in  poets." 


AN  APOLOGIE   FOR   POETRIE  127 

it  is,  I  say  again,  not  the  fault  of  the  art,  but  that  by  few 
men  that  art  can  be  accomplished.  Certainly,  even  our 
Saviour  Christ  could  as  well  have  given  the  moral  common- 
places of  uncharitableness  and  humbleness,  as  the  divine 
narration  of  Dives  and  Lazarus;  or  of  disobedience  and 
mercy,  as  the  heavenly  discourse  of  the  lost  child  and  the 
gracious  father;  but  that  his  thorough  searching  wisdom 
knew  the  estate  of  Dives  burning  in  hell,  and  of  Lazarus  in 
Abraham's  bosom,  would  more  constantly,  as  it  were,  in- 
habit both  the  memory  and  judgment.  Truly,  for  myself 
(me  seems),  I  see  before  mine  eyes  the  lost  child's  disdain- 
ful prodigality  turned  to  envy  a  swine's  dinner;  which,  by 
the  learned  divines,  are  thought  not  historical  acts,  but  in- 
structing parables. 

For  conclusion,  I  say  the  philosopher  teacheth,  but  he 
teacheth  obscurely,  so  as  the  learned  only  can  understand 
him ;  that  is  to  say,  he  teacheth  them  that  are  already  taught. 
But  the  poet  is  the  food  for  the  tenderest  stomachs ;  the  poet 
is,  indeed,  the  right  popular  philosopher.  Whereof  ^Esop's 
tales  give  good  proof;  whose  pretty  allegories,  stealing 
under  the  formal  tales  of  beasts,  make  many,  more  beastly 
than  beasts,  begin  to  hear  the  sound  of  virtue  from  those 
dumb  speakers. 

But  now  may  it  be  alleged,  that  if  this  managing  of  mat- 
ters be  so  fit  for  the  imagination,  then  must  the  historian 
needs  surpass,  who  brings  you  images  of  true  matters,  such 
as,  indeed,  were  done,  and  not  such  as  fantastically  or  falsely 
may  be  suggested  to  have  been  done.  Truly,  Aristotle  him- 
self, in  his  Discourse  of  Poesy,  plainly  determineth  this 
question,  saying,  that  poetry  is  <ptXo<To<pu>Tspov  xa\  nffoudaturepov, 
that  is  to  say,  it  is  more  philosophical  and  more  ingenious 
than  history.  His  reason  is,  because  poesy  dealeth  with 
xa66Xou,  that  is  to  say,  with  the  universal  consideration,  and 
the  history  zad'  exaarov,  the  particular.  «  Now,»  saith  he,  « the 
universal  weighs  what  is  fit  to  be  said  or  done,  either  in 
likelihood  or  necessity ;  which  the  poesy  considereth  in  his 
imposed  names;  and  the  particular  only  marks,  whether 
Alcibiades  did,  or  suffered,  this  or  that :  »  thus  far  Aristotle.1 

1  Thus  far  Aristotle.  The  whole  passage  in  the  "Poetics"  runs: 
"  It  is  not  by  writing  in  verse  or  prose  that  the  Historian  and  Poet  are 


128  SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY 

Which  reason  of  his,  as  all  his,  is  most  full  of  reason.  For, 
indeed,  if  the  question  were,  whether  it  were  better  to  have 
a  particular  act  truly  or  falsely  set  down?  there  is  no  doubt 
which  is  to  be  chosen,  no  more  than  whether  you  had  rather 
have  Vespasian's  picture  right  as  he  was,  or,  at  the  painter's 
pleasure,  nothing  resembling?  But  if  the  question  be,  for 
your  own  use  and  learning,  whether  it  be  better  to  have  it 
set  down  as  it  should  be,  or  as  it  was?  then,  certainly,  is 
more  doctrinable  the  feigned  Cyrus  in  Xenophon,  than  the 
true  Cyrus  in  Justin ;  and  the  feigned  ./Eneas  in  Virgil,  than 
the  right  ^neas  in  Dares  Phrygius ;  as  to  a  lady  that  desired 
to  fashion  her  countenance  to  the  best  grace,  a  painter 
should  more  benefit  her,  to  portrait  a  most  sweet  face,  writ- 
ing Canidia  upon  it,  than  to  paint  Canidia  as  she  was,  who 
Horace  sweareth,  was  full  ill-favored.  If  the  poet  do  his 
part  aright,  he  will  show  you  in  Tantalus,  Atreus,  and  such 
like,  nothing  that  is  not  to  be  shunned ;  in  Cyrus,  /Eneas, 
Ulysses,  each  thing  to  be  followed;  where  the  historian, 
bound  to  tell  things  as  things  were,  cannot  be  liberal,  with- 
out he  will  be  poetical,  of  a  perfect  pattern;  but,  as  in 
Alexander,  or  Scipio  himself,  show  doings,  some  to  be  liked, 
some  to  be  misliked ;  and  then  how  will  you  discern  what  to 
follow,  but  by  your  own  discretion,  which  you  had,  without 
reading  Q.  Curtius?  And  whereas,  a  man  may  say,  though 
in  universal  consideration  of  doctrine,  the  poet  prevaileth, 
yet  that  the  history,  in  his  saying  such  a  thing  was  done, 
doth  warrant  a  man  more  in  that  he  shall  follow ;  the  an- 
swer is  manifest :  that  if  he  stand  upon  that  was,  as  if  he 
should  argue,  because  it  rained  }resterday  therefore  it  should 
rain  to-day ;  then,  indeed,  hath  it  some  advantage  to  a  gross 
conceit.  But  if  he  know  an  example  only  enforms  a  conjee- 
distinguished.  The  work  of  Herodotus  might  be  versified :  but  it 
would  still  be  a  species  of  History,  no  less  with  metre  than  without. 
They  are  distinguished  by  this,  that  the  one  relates  what  has  been, 
the  other  what  might  be.  On  this  account  Poetry  is  moro  philosophi- 
cal, and  a  more  excellent  thing  than  History,  for  Poetry  is  chiefly  con- 
versant about  general  truth  ;  History  abort  particular.  In  what  man- 
ner, for  example,  any  person  of  a  certain  character  would  speak  or  act, 
probably  or  necessarily,  this  is  general ;  and  this  is  the  object  of 
Poetry,  even  while  it  makes  use  of  particular  names.  But  what  Alci- 
biades  did,  or  what  happened  to  him,  this  is  particular  truth." 


AN   APOLOGIE   FOR   POETRIE  129 

tured  likelihood,  and  so  go  by  reason,  the  poet  doth  so  far 
exceed  him,  as  he  is  to  frame  his  example  to  that  which  is 
most  reasonable,  be  it  in  warlike,  politic,  or  private  matters; 
where  the  historian  in  his  bare  was  hath  many  times  that 
which  we  call  fortune  to  overrule  the  best  wisdom.  Many 
times  he  must  tell  events  whereof  he  can  yield  no  cause ;  or 
if  he  do,  it  must  be  poetically. 

For,  that  a  feigned  example  hath  as  much  force  to  teach 
as  a  true  example  (for  as  for  to  move,  it  is  clear,  since  the 
feigned  may  be  tuned  to  the  highest  key  of  passion),  let  us 
take  one  example  wherein  an  historian  and  a  poet  did  con- 
cur. Herodotus  and  Justin  do  both  testify,  that  Zopyrus, 
King  Darius's  faithful  servant,  seeing  his  master  long  re- 
sisted by  the  rebellious  Babylonians,  feigned  himself  in  ex- 
treme disgrace  of  his  King;  for  verifying  of  which  he  caused 
his  own  nose  and  ears  to  be  cut  off,  and  so  flying  to  the 
Babylonians,  was  received ;  and,  for  his  known  valor,  so  far 
credited,  that  he  did  find  means  to  deliver  them  over  to 
Darius.  Much-like  matters  doth  Livy  record  of  Tarquinius 
and  his  son.  Xenophon  excellently  feigned  such  another 
stratagem,  performed  by  Abradatus  in  Cyrus's  behalf. 
Now  would  I  fain  know,  if  occasion  be  presented  unto  you 
to  serve  your  prince  by  such  an  honest  dissimulation,  why 
do  you  not  as  well  learn  it  of  Xenophon' s  fiction  as  of  the 
other's  verity?  and,  truly,  so  much  the  better,  as  you  shall 
save  your  nose  by  the  bargain ;  for  Abradatus  did  not  coun- 
terfeit so  far.  So,  then,  the  best  of  the  historians  is  subject 
to  the  poet;  for,  whatsoever  action  or  faction,  whatsoever 
counsel,  policy,  or  war  stratagem  the  historian  is  bound  to 
recite,  that  may  the  poet,  if  he  list,  with  his  imitation,  make 
his  own,  beautifying  it  both  for  farther  teaching,  and  more 
delighting,  as  it  please  him :  having  all,  from  Dante's  heaven 
to  his  hell,  under  the  authority  of  his  pen.  Which  if  I  be 
asked,  What  poets  have  done  so?  as  I  might  well  name 
some,  so  yet,  say  I,  and  say  again,  I  speak  of  the  art,  and 
not  of  the  artificer. 

Now,  to  that  which  commonly  is  attributed  to  the  praise 

of  history,  in  respect  of  the  notable  learning  which  is  got 

by  marking  the  success,  as  though  therein  a  man  should  see 

virtue  exalted,  and  vice  punished:   truly,  that  commenda- 

9 


130  SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY 

tion  is  peculiar  to  poetry,  and  far  off  from  history ;  for,  in- 
deed, poetry  ever  sets  virtue  so  out  in  her  best  colors,  mak- 
ing fortune  her  well-waiting  handmaid,  that  one  must  needs 
be  enamoured  of  her.  Well  may  you  see  Ulysses  in  a  storm, 
and  in  other  hard  plights;  but  they  are  but  exercises  of 
patience  and  magnanimity,  to  make  them  shine  the  more  in 
the  near  following  prosperity.  And,  on  the  contrary  part,  if 
evil  men  come  to  the  stage,  they  ever  go  out  (as  the  tragedy 
writer  answered  to  one  that  misliked  the  show  of  such 
persons),  so  manacled,  as  they  little  animate  folks  to  follow 
them.  But  history  being  captive  to  the  truth  of  a  foolish 
world,  in  many  times  a  terror  from  well-doing,  and  an  encour- 
agement to  unbridled  wickedness.  For  see  we  not  valiant 
Miltiades  rot  in  his  fetters?  the  just  Phocion  and  the  accom- 
plished Socrates  put  to  death  like  traitors?  the  cruel  Severus 
live  prosperously?  the  excellent  Severus  miserably  mur- 
dered? Sylla  and  Marius  dying  in  their  beds?  Pompey  and 
Cicero  slain  then  when  they  would  have  thought  exile  a  happi- 
ness? See  we  not  virtuous  Cato  driven  to  kill  himself,  and 
rebel  Caesar  so  advanced,  that  his  name  yet,  after  sixteen 
hundred  years,  lasteth  in  the  highest  honor?  And  mark  but 
even  Caesar's  own  words  of  the  forenamed  Sylla  (who  in  that 
only  did  honestly,  to  put  down  his  dishonest  tyranny),  « literas 
nescivit»:  as  if  want  of  learning  caused  him  to  do  well. 
He  meant  it  not  by  poetry,  which,  not  content  with  earthly 
plagues,  deviseth  new  punishment  in  hell  for  tyrants :  nor 
yet  by  philosophy,  which  teacheth  « occidentes  esse  » ;  but, 
no  doubt,  by  skill  in  history;  for  that,  indeed,  can  afford 
you  Cypselus,  Periander,  Phalaris,  Dionysius,  and  I  know 
not  how  many  more  of  the  same  kennel,  that  speed  well 
enough  in  their  abominable  injustice  of  usurpation. 

I  conclude,  therefore,  that  he  excelleth  history,  not  only 
in  furnishing  the  mind  with  knowledge,  but  in  setting  it 
forward  to  that  which  deserves  to  be  called  and  accounted 
good;  which  setting  forward,  and  moving  to  well-doing, 
indeed,  setteth  the  laurel  crowns  upon  the  poets  as  victo- 
rious; not  only  of  the  historian,  but  over  the  philosopher, 
howsoever,  in  teaching,  it  may  be  questionable.  For  sup- 
pose it  be  granted,  that  which  I  suppose,  with  great  reason, 
may  be    denied,   that  the  philosopher,    in   respect  of  his 


AN  APOLOGIE   FOR   POETRIE  131 

methodical  proceeding,  teach  more  perfectly  than  the  poet, 
yet  do  I  think,  that  no  man  is  so  much  <fdo<fiX6ao<po<s,  as  to 
compare  the  philosopher  in  moving  with  the  poet.  And 
that  moving  is  of  a  higher  degree  than  teaching,  it  may  by 
this  appear,  that  it  is  well-nigh  both  the  cause  and  effect  of 
teaching ;  for  who  will  be  taught,  if  he  be  not  moved  with 
desire  to  be  taught?  And  what  so  much  good  doth  that 
teaching  bring  forth  (I  speak  still  of  moral  doctrine)  as  that 
it  moveth  one  to  do  that  which  it  doth  teach.  For,  as  Aris- 
totle saith,  it  is  not  yvwais  but  */>«£j9 '  must  be  the  fruit ;  and 
how  Tpd;i<z  can  be,  without  being  moved  to  practise,  it  is  no 
hard  matter  to  consider.  The  philosopher  showeth  you  the 
way,  he  informeth  you  of  the  particularities,  as  well  of  the 
tediousness  of  the  way  and  of  the  pleasant  lodging  you  shall 
have  when  your  journey  is  ended,  as  of  the  many  by- 
turnings  that  may  divert  you  from  your  way ;  but  this  is  to 
no  man,  but  to  him  that  will  read  him,  and  read  him  with 
attentive,  studious  painfulness ;  which  constant  desire  who- 
soever hath  in  him,  hath  already  passed  half  the  hardness 
of  the  way,  and  therefore  is  beholden  to  the  philosopher  but 
for  the  other  half.  Nay,  truly,  learned  men  have  learnedly 
thought,  that  where  once  reason  hath  so  much  over-mastered 
passion,  as  that  the  mind  hath  a  free  desire  to  do  well,  the 
inward  light  each  mind  hath  in  itself  is  as  good  as  a  philos- 
opher's book:  since  in  nature  we  know  it  is  well  to  do  well, 
and  what  is  well  and  what  is  evil,  although  not  in  the  words 
of  art  which  philosophers  bestow  upon  us ;  for  out  of  natural 
conceit  the  philosophers  drew  it ;  but  to  be  moved  to  do  that 
which  we  know,  or  to  be  moved  with  desire  to  know,  «  hoc 
opus,  hie  labor  est.» 

Now,  therein,  of  all  sciences  (I  speak  still  of  human,  and 
according  to  the  human  conceit),  is  our  poet  the  monarch. 
For  he  doth  not  only  show  the  way,  but  giveth  so  sweet  a 
prospect  into  the  way,  as  will  entice  any  man  to  enter  into 
it;  nay,  he  doth,  as  if  your  journey  should  lie  through  a  fair 
vineyard,  at  the  very  first  give  you  a  cluster  of  grapes,  that 
full  of  that  taste  you  may  long  to  pass  farther.  He  begin- 
neth  not  with  obscure  definitions,  which  must  blur  the  mar- 
gin with  interpretations,  and  load  the  memory  with  doubt- 
1  Not  knowledge  but  practice. 


i32  SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY 

fulness,  but  he  cometh  to  you  with  words  set  in  delightful 
proportion,  either  accompanied  with,  or  prepared  for,  the 
well-enchanting  skill  of  music;  and  with  a  tale,  forsooth,  he 
cometh  unto  you  with  a  tale  which  holdeth  children  from 
play,  and  old  men  from  the  chimney-corner;  and,  pretend- 
ing no  more,  doth  intend  the  winning  of  the  mind  from 
wickedness  to  virtue ;  even  as  the  child  is  often  brought  to 
take  most  wholesome  things,  by  hiding  them  in  such  other 
as  have  a  pleasant  taste ;  which,  if  one  should  begin  to  tell 
them  the  nature  of  the  aloes  or  rhubarbarum  they  should 
receive,  would  sooner  take  their  physic  at  their  ears  than  at 
their  mouth ;  so  it  is  in  men  (most  of  them  are  childish  in 
the  best  things,  till  they  be  cradled  in  their  graves) ;  glad 
they  will  be  to  hear  the  tales  of  Hercules,  Achilles,  Cyrus, 
./Eneas;  and  hearing  them,  must  needs  hear  the  right  de- 
scription of  wisdom,  valor,  and  justice ;  which,  if  they  had 
been  barely  (that  is  to  say,  philosophically)  set  out,  they 
would  swear  they  be  brought  to  school  again.  That  imita- 
tion whereof  poetry  is,  hath  the  most  conveniency  to  nature 
of  all  other;  insomuch  that,  as  Aristotle  saith,  those  things 
which  in  themselves  are  horrible,  as  cruel  battles,  unnatural 
monsters,  are  made,  in  poetical  imitation,  delightful.  Truly, 
I  have  known  men,  that  even  with  reading  Amadis  de  Gaule, 
which,  God  knoweth,  wanteth  much  of  a  perfect  poesy,  have 
found  their  hearts  moved  to  the  exercise  of  courtesy,  liber- 
ality, and  especially  courage.  Who  readeth  ./Eneas  carrying 
old  Anchises  on  his  back,  that  wisheth  not  it  were  his  for- 
tune to  perform  so  excellent  an  act?  Whom  doth  not  those 
words  of  Turnus  move  (the  tale  of  Turnus  having  planted 
his  image  in  the  imagination) 

" fugientem.haec  terra  videbit? 

Usque  adeone  mori  miserum  est  "  ?  ' 

Where  the  philosophers  (as  they  think)  scorn  to  delight,  so 
much  they  be  content  little  to  move,  saving  wrangling 
whether  « virtus »  be  the  chief  or  the  only  good ;  whether 

'Virgil's  "^Eneid,"  Book  xii.  : — 

"And  shall  this  ground  fainthearted  dastard 
Turnus  flying  view? 
Is  it  so  vile  a  thing  to  die?  " 

(Phaer's  Translation  [1573J.) 


AN   APOLOGIE   FOR   POETRIE  133 

the  contemplative  or  the  active  life  do  excel;  which  Plato 
and  Boetius  well  knew ;  and  therefore  made  mistress  Philos- 
ophy very  often  borrow  the  masking  raiment  of  poesy.  For 
even  those  hard-hearted  evil  men,  who  think  virtue  a  school- 
name,  and  know  no  other  good  but  «indulgere  genio,»  and 
therefore  despise  the  austere  admonitions  of  the  philosopher, 
and  feel  not  the  inward  reason  they  stand  upon ;  yet  will  be 
content  to  be  delighted,  which  is  all  the  good-fellow  poet 
seems  to  promise ;  and  so  steal  to  see  the  form  of  goodness, 
which  seen,  they  cannot  but  love,  ere  themselves  be  aware, 
as  if  they  took  a  medicine  of  cherries. 

Infinite  proofs  of  the  strange  effects  of  this  poetical  in- 
vention might  be  alleged ;  only  two  shall  serve,  which  are  so 
often  remembered,  as,  I  think,  all  men  know  them.  The 
one  of  Menenius  Agrippa,  who,  when  the  whole  people  of 
Rome  had  resolutely  divided  themselves  from  the  senate, 
with  apparent  show  of  utter  ruin,  though  he  were,  for  that 
time,  an  excellent  orator,  came  not  among  them  upon  trust, 
either  of  figurative  speeches,  or  cunning  insinuations,  and 
much  less  with  far-fetched  maxims  of  philosophy,  which, 
especially  if  they  were  Platonic,  they  must  have  learned 
geometry  before  they  could  have  conceived ;  but,  forsooth, 
he  behaveth  himself  like  a  homely  and  familiar  poet.  He 
telleth  them  a  tale,  that  there  was  a  time  when  all  the  parts 
of  the  body  made  a  mutinous  conspiracy  against  the  belly, 
which  they  thought  devoured  the  fruits  of  each  other's 
labor;  they  concluded  they  would  let  so  unprofitable  a 
spender  starve.  In  the  end,  to  be  short  (for  the  tale  is 
notorious,  and  as  notorious  that  it  was  a  tale),  with  punish- 
ing the  belly  they  plagued  themselves.  This,  applied  by 
him,  wrought  such  effect  in  the  people  as  I  never  read  that 
only  words  brought  forth ;  but  then  so  sudden,  and  so  good 
an  alteration,  for  upon  reasonable  conditions  a  perfect  rec- 
oncilement ensued. 

The  other  is  of  Nathan  the  prophet,  who,  when  the  holy 
David  had  so  far  forsaken  God,  as  to  confirm  adultery  with 
murder,  when  he  was  to  do  the  tenderest  office  of  a  friend, 
in  laying  his  own  shame  before  his  eyes,  being  sent  by  God 
to  call  again  so  chosen  a  servant,  how  doth  he  it?  but  by 
telling  of  a  man  whose  beloved  lamb  was  ungratefully  taken 


i34  SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY 

from  his  bosom.  The  application  most  divinely  true,  but  he 
to  discourse  itself  feigned;  which  made  David  (I  speak  of 
the  second  and  instrumental  cause)  as  in  a  glass  see  his  own 
filthiness,  as  that  heavenly  psalm  of  mercy  well  testifieth. 

By  these,  therefore,  examples  and  reasons,  I  think  it  may 
be  manifest  that  the  poet,  with  that  same  hand  of  delight, 
doth  draw  the  mind  more  effectually  than  any  other  art  doth. 
And  so  a  conclusion  not  unfitly  ensues ;  that  as  virtue  is  the 
most  excellent  resting-place  for  all  worldly  learning  to  make 
his  end  of,  so  poetry,  being  the  most  familiar  \o  teach  it, 
and  most  princely  to  move  towards  it,  in  the  most  excellent 
work  is  the  most  excellent  workman. 

But  I  am  content  not  only  to  decipher  him  by  his  works 
(although  works  in  commendation  and  dispraise  must  ever 
hold  a  high  authority),  but  more  narrowly  will  examine  his 
parts ;  so  that  (as  in  a  man)  though  all  together  may  carry  a 
presence  full  of  majesty  and  beauty  perchance  in  some  one 
defectuous '  piece  we  may  find  blemish. 

Now,  in  his  paits,  kinds,  or  species,  as  you  list  to  term 
them,  it  is  to  be  noted  that  some  poesies  have  coupled  to- 
gether two  or  three  kinds;  as  the  tragical  and  comical, 
whereupon  is  risen  the  tragi-comical ;  some,  in  the  manner, 
have  mingled  prose  and  verse,  as  Sannazaro  and  Boetius; 
some  have  mingled  matters  heroical  and  pastoral ;  but  that 
cometh  all  to  one  in  this  question;  for,  if  severed  they  be 
good,  the  conjunction  cannot  be  hurtful.  Therefore,  per- 
chance, forgetting  some,  and  leaving  some  as  needless  to  be 
remembered,  it  shall  not  be  amiss,  in  a  word,  to  cite  the 
special  kinds,  to  see  what  faults  may  be  found  in  the  right 
use  of  them. 

Is  it,  then,  the  pastoral  poem  which  is  misliked?  For, 
perchance,  where  the  hedge  is  lowest,  they  will  soonest  leap 
over.  Is  the  poor  pipe  disdained,  which  sometimes,  out  of 
Melibaeus's  mouth,  can  show  the  misery  of  people  under 
hard  lords  and  ravening  soldiers?  And  again,  by  Tityrus, 
what  blessedness  is  derived  to  them  that  lie  lowest  from  the 
goodness  of  them  that  sit  highest?  Sometimes  under  the 
pretty  tales  of  wolves  and  sheep,  can  include  the  whole  con- 

1  Defectuous.  The  word,  from  the  French  "defectueux,"  is  used 
twice  in  the  "Apologie  for  Poetrie." 


AN   APOLOGIE   FOR   POETRIE  135 

siderations  of  wrongdoing  and  patience;  sometimes  show, 
that  contentions  for  trifles  can  get  but  a  trifling  victory, 
where,  perchance,  a  man  may  see  that  even  Alexander  and 
Darius,  when  they  strove  who  should  be  cock  of  this  world's 
dunghill,  the  benefit  they  got  was,  that  the  after-livers  may 

say, 

"Haec  memini,  et  victum  frustra  contendere  Thyrsim. 
Ex  illo  Corydon,  Corydon  est  tempore  nobis." 

Or  is  it  the  lamenting  elegiac  which,  in  a  kind  heart, 
would  move  rather  pity  than  blame ;  who  bewaileth,  with 
the  great  philosopher  Heraclitus,  the  weakness  of  mankind, 
and  the  wretchedness  of  the  world;  who,  surely,  is  to  be 
praised,  either  for  compassionately  accompanying  just  causes 
of  lamentations,  or  for  rightly  pointing  out  how  weak  be  the 
passions  of  wo  fulness? 

Is  it  the  bitter,  but  wholesome  iambic,  who  rubs  the  galled 
mind,  making  shame  the  trumpet  of  villany,  with  bold  and 
open  crying  out  against  naughtiness? 

Or  the  satiric?  who, 

"Omne  vafer  vitium  ridenti  tangit  amico; " 

who  sportingly  never  leaveth,  until  he  make  a  man  laugh  at 
folly,  and,  at  length,  ashamed  to  laugh  at  himself,  which  he 
cannot  avoid  without  avoiding  the  folly;  who,  while  «cir- 
cum  praecordia  ludit,»  giveth  us  to  feel  how  many  headaches 
a  passionate  life  bringeth  us  to ;  who  when  all  is  done, 

"Est  Ulubris,  animus  si  nos  non  deficit  aequus." 

No,  perchance,  it  is  the  comic;  whom  naughty  play- 
makers  and  stage-keepers  have  justly  made  odious.  To  the 
arguments  of  abuse  I  will  after  answer;  only  thus  much 
now  is  to  be  said,  that  the  comedy  is  an  imitation  of  the 
common  errors  of  our  life,  which  he  representeth  in  the 
most  ridiculous  and  scornful  sort  that  may  be ;  so  as  it  is 
impossible  that  any  beholder  can  be  content  to  be  such  a 
one.  Now,  as  in  geometry,  the  oblique  must  be  known  as 
well  as  the  right,  and  in  arithmetic,  the  odd  as  well  as  the 
even;  so  in  the  actions  of  our  life,  who  seeth  not  the  filthi- 
ness  of  evil,  wanteth  a  great  foil  to  perceive  the  beauty  of 
virtue.  This  doth  the  comedy  handle  so,  in  our  private  and 
domestical  matters,  as,  with  hearing  it,  we  get,  as  it  were, 


136  SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY 

an  experience  of  what  is  to  be  looked  for,  of  a  niggardly 
Demea,  of  a  crafty  Davus,  of  a  flattering  Gnatho,  of  a  vain- 
glorious Thraso ;  and  not  only  to  know  what  effects  are  to 
be  expected,  but  to  know  who  be  such,  by  the  signifying 
badge  given  them  by  the  comedian.  And  little  reason  hath 
any  man  to  say,  that  men  learn  the  evil  by  seeing  it  so  set 
out ;  since,  as  I  said  before,  there  is  no  man  living,  but  by 
the  force  truth  hath  in  nature,  no  sooner  seeth  these  men 
play  their  parts,  but  wisheth  them  in  «  pistrinum  »  ;  although, 
perchance,  the  sack  of  his  own  faults  lie  so  behind  his  back, 
that  he  seeth  not  himself  to  dance  in  the  same  measure, 
whereto  yet  nothing  can  more  open  his  eyes  than  to  see  his 
own  actions  contemptibly  set  forth ;  so  that  the  right  use  of 
comedy  will,  I  think,  by  nobody  be  blamed. 

And  much  less  of  the  high  and  excellent  tragedy,  that 
openeth  the  greatest  wounds,  and  showeth  forth  the  ulcers 
that  are  covered  with  tissue ;  that  maketh  kings  fear  to  be 
tyrants,  and  tyrants  to  manifest  their  tyrannical  humors; 
that  with  stirring  the  effects  of  admiration  and  commisera- 
tion, teacheth  the  uncertainty  of  this  world,  and  upon  how 
weak  foundations  gilded  roofs  are  builded ;  that  maketh  us 
know,  «  qui  sceptra  ssevus  duro  imperio  regit,  timet  timentes, 
metus  in  authorem  redit.»  But  how  much  it  can  move, 
Plutarch  yielded  a  notable  testimony  of  the  abominable  tyrant 
Alexander  Pheraeus ;  from  whose  eyes  a  tragedy,  well  made 
and  represented,  drew  abundance  of  tears,  who  without  all 
pity  had  murdered  infinite  numbers,  and  some  of  his  own 
blood ;  so  as  he  that  was  not  ashamed  to  make  matters  for 
tragedies,  yet  could  not  resist  the  sweet  violence  of  a  trag* 
edy.  And  if  it  wrought  no  farther  good  in  him,  it  was  that 
he,  in  despite  of  himself,  withdrew  himself  from  hearkening 
to  that  which  might  mollify  his  hardened  heart.  But  it  is 
not  the  tragedy  they  do  dislike,  for  it  were  too  absurd  to 
cast  out  so  excellent  a  representation  of  whatsoever  is  most 
worthy  to  be  learned. 

Is  it  the  lyric  that  most  displeaseth,  who  with  his  tuned 
lyre  and  well-accorded  voice,  giveth  praise,  the  reward  of 
virtue,  to  virtuous  acts?  who  giveth  moral  precepts  and 
natural  problems?  who  sometimes  raiseth  up  his  voice  to 
the  height  of  the  heavens,  in  singing  the  lauds  of  the  im- 


AN  APOLOGIE   FOR   POETRIE  137 

mortal  God?  Certainly,  I  must  confess  mine  own  barba- 
rousness ;  I  never  heard  the  old  song  of  Percy  and  Douglas, 
that  I  found  not  my  heart  moved  more  than  with  a  trumpet ; 
and  yet  it  is  sung  but  by  some  blind  crowder,  with  no 
rougher  voice  than  rude  style ;  which  being  so  evil  appar- 
elled in  the  dust  and  cobweb  of  that  uncivil  age,  what  would 
it  work,  trimmed  in  the  gorgeous  eloquence  of  Pindar?  In 
Hungary  I  have  seen  it  the  manner  at  all  feasts,  and  all 
other  such-like  meetings,  to  have  songs  of  their  ancestors' 
valor,  which  that  right  soldier-like  nation  think  one  of  the 
chiefest  kindlers  of  brave  courage.  The  incomparable 
Lacedaemonians  did  not  only  carry  that  kind  of  music  ever 
with  them  to  the  field,  but  even  at  home,  as  such  songs  were 
made,  so  were  they  all  content  to  be  singers  of  them ;  when 
the  lusty  men  were  to  tell  what  they  did,  the  old  men  what 
they  had  done,  and  the  young  what  they  would  do.  And 
where  a  man  may  say  that  Pindar  many  times  praiseth 
highly  victories  of  small  moment,  rather  matters  of  sport 
than  virtue ;  as  it  may  be  answered,  it  was  the  fault  of  the 
poet,  and  not  of  the  poetry,  so,  indeed,  the  chief  fault  was 
in  the  time  and  custom  of  the  Greeks,  who  set  those  toys  at 
so  high  a  price,  that  Philip  of  Macedon  reckoned  a  horse- 
race won  at  Olympus  among  his  three  fearful  felicities.  But 
as  the  inimitable  Pindar  often  did,  so  is  that  kind  most  capa- 
ble, and  most  fit,  to  awake  the  thoughts  from  the  sleep  of 
idleness,  to  embrace  honorable  enterprises. 

There  rests  the  heroical,  whose  very  name,  I  think,  should 
daunt  all  backbiters.  For  by  what  conceit  can  a  tongue  be 
directed  to  speak  evil  of  that  which  draweth  with  him  no  less 
champions  than  Achilles,  Cyrus,  ./Eneas,  Turnus,  Tydeus, 
Rinaldo?  who  doth  not  only  teach  and  move  to  truth,  but 
teacheth  and  moveth  to  the  most  high  and  excellent  truth ; 
who  maketh  magnanimity  and  justice  shine  through  all 
misty  fearfulness  and  foggy  desires?  who,  if  the  saying  of 
Plato  and  Tully  be  true,  that  who  could  see  virtue,  would  be 
wonderfully  ravished  with  the  love  of  her  beauty ;  this  man 
setteth  her  out  to  make  her  more  lovely,  in  her  holiday  ap- 
parel, to  the  eye  of  any  that  will  deign  not  to  disdain  until 
they  understand.  But  if  anything  be  already  said  in  the 
defence  of  sweet  poetry,  all  concurreth  to  the  maintaining 


138  SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY 

the  heroical,  which  is  not  only  a  kind,  but  the  best  and  most 
accomplished  kind,  of  poetry.  For,  as  the  image  of  each 
action  stirreth  and  instructeth  the  mind,  so  the  lofty  image 
of  such  worthies  most  inflameth  the  mind  with  desire  to  be 
worthy,  and  informs  with  counsel  how  to  be  worthy.  Only 
let  ./Eneas  be  worn  in  the  tablet  of  your  memory,  how  he 
governeth  himself  in  the  ruin  of  his  country;  in  the  pre- 
serving his  old  father,  and  carrying  away  his  religious  cere- 
monies; in  obeying  God's  commandments,  to  leave  Dido, 
though  not  only  passionate  kindness,  but  even  the  human 
consideration  of  virtuous  gratefulness,  would  have  craved 
other  of  him ;  how  in  storms,  how  in  sports,  how  in  war, 
how  in  peace,  how  a  fugitive,  how  victorious,  how  besieged, 
how  besieging,  how  to  strangers,  how  to  allies,  how  to  ene- 
mies; how  to  his  own,  lastly,  how  in  his  inward  self,  and 
how  in  his  outward  government ;  and  I  think,  in  a  mind 
most  prejudiced  with  a  prejudicating  humor,  he  will  be 
found  in  excellency  fruitful.  Yea,  as  Horace  saith,  «  Melius 
Chrysippo  et  Crantore» ;  but,  truly,  I  imagine  it  falleth  out 
with  these  poet-whippers  as  with  some  good  women  who 
often  are  sick,  but  in  faith  they  cannot  tell  where.  So  the 
name  of  poetry  is  odious  to  them,  but  neither  his  cause  nor 
effects,  neither  the  sum  that  contains  him,  nor  the  particu- 
larities descending  from  him,  give  any  fast  handle  to  their 
carping  dispraise. 

Since,  then,  poetry  is  of  all  human  learnings  the  most 
ancient,  and  of  most  fatherly  antiquity,  as  from  whence 
other  learnings  have  taken  their  beginnings ;  since  it  is  so 
universal  that  no  learned  nation  doth  despise  it,  nor  bar- 
barous nation  is  without  it;  since  both  Roman  and  Greek 
gave  such  divine  names  unto  it,  the  one  of  prophesying,  the 
other  of  making,  and  that  indeed  that  name  of  making  is  fit 
for  him,  considering  that  where  all  other  arts  retain  them- 
selves within  their  subject,  and  receive,  as  it  were,  their 
being  from  it,  the  poet  only,  only  bringeth  his  own  stuff, 
and  doth  not  learn  a  conceit  out  of  a  matter,  but  maketh 
matter  for  a  conceit ;  since  neither  his  description  nor  end 
containeth  any  evil,  the  thing  described  cannot  be  evil ;  since 
his  effects  be  so  good  as  to  teach  goodness,  and  delight  the 
learners  of  it ;  since  therein  (namely,  in  moral  doctrine,  the 


AN   APOLOGIE   FOR   POETRIE  139 

chief  of  all  knowledges)  he  doth  not  only  far  pass  the  his- 
torian, but,  for  instructing,  is  well-nigh  comparable  to  the 
philosopher ;  for  moving,  leaveth  him  behind  him ;  since  the 
Holy  Scripture  (wherein  there  is  no  uncleanness)  hath  whole 
parts  in  it  poetical,  and  that  even  our  Saviour  Christ  vouch- 
safed to  use  the  flowers  of  it ;  since  all  his  kinds  are  not 
only  in  their  united  forms,  but  in  their  severed  dissections 
fully  commendable ;  I  think,  and  think  I  think  rightly,  the 
laurel  crown  appointed  for  triumphant  captains,  doth 
worthily,  of  all  other  learnings,  honor  the  poet's  triumph. 

But  because  we  have  ears  as  well  as  tongues,  and  that  the 
lightest  reasons  that  may  be,  will  seem  to  weigh  greatly, 
if  nothing  be  put  in  the  counterbalance,  let  us  hear,  and, 
as  well  as  we  can,  ponder  what  objections  be  made  against 
this  art,  which  may  be  worthy  either  of  yielding  or  an- 
swering. 

First,  truly,  I  note,  not  only  in  these  [xtao^ooaoi^  poet- 
haters,  but  in  all  that  kind  of  people  who  seek  a  praise  by 
dispraising  others,  that  they  do  prodigally  spend  a  great 
many  wandering  words  in  quips  and  scoffs,  carping  and 
taunting  at  each  thing,  which,  by  stirring  the  spleen,  may 
stay  the  brain  from  a  thorough  beholding  the  worthiness  of 
the  subject.  Those  kind  of  objections,  as  they  are  full  of  a 
very  idle  uneasiness  (since  there  is  nothing  of  so  sacred  a 
majesty,  but  that  an  itching  tongue  may  rub  itself  upon  it), 
so  deserve  they  no  other  answer,  but,  instead  of  laughing  at 
the  jest,  to  laugh  at  the  jester.  We  know  a  playing  wit  can 
praise  the  discretion  of  an  ass,  the  comfortableness  of  being 
in  debt,  and  the  jolly  commodities  of  being  sick  of  the 
plague ;  so,  of  the  contrary  side,  if  we  will  turn  Ovid's  verse, 

"Ut  lateat  virtus  proximitate  mali," 

«That  good  lies  hid  in  nearness  of  the  evil,»  Agrippa  will 
be  as  merry  in  the  showing  the  Vanity  of  Science,  as  Eras- 
mus was  in  the  commending  of  Folly ; '  neither  shall  any 
man  or  matter  escape  some  touch  of  these  smiling  railers. 
But  for  Erasmus  and  Agrippa,  they  had  another  foundation 

1  Cornelius  Agrippa's  book,  "  De  Incertitudine  et  Vanitate  Scienti- 
arum  et  Artium,"  was  first  published  in  1532  ;  Erasmus's  "Moriae  En- 
comium "  was  written  in  a  week,  in  1510,  and  went  in  a  few  months 
through  seven  editions. 


Ho  SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY 

than  the  superficial  part  would  promise.  Marry,  these  other 
pleasant  fault-finders,  who  will  correct  the  verb  before  they 
understand  the  noun,  and  confute  others'  knowledge  before 
they  confirm  their  own ;  I  would  have  them  only  remember, 
that  scoffing  cometh  not  of  wisdom ;  so  as  the  best  title  in 
true  English  they  get  with  their  merriments,  is  to  be  called 
good  fools ;  for  so  have  our  grave  forefathers  ever  termed 
that  humorous  kind  of  jesters. 

But  that  which  giveth  greatest  scope  to  their  scorning 
humor,  is  rhyming  and  versing.  It  is  already  said,  and, 
as  I  think,  truly  said,  it  is  not  rhyming  and  versing  that 
maketh  poesy ;  one  may  be  a  poet  without  versing,  and  a 
versifier  without  poetry.  But  yet,  presuppose  it  were  insep- 
arable, as  indeed,  it  seemeth  Scaliger  judgeth  truly,  it  were 
an  inseparable  commendation ;  for  if  «  oratio  »  next  to  «  ratio, » 
speech  next  to  reason,  be  the  greatest  gift  bestowed  upon 
mortality,  that  cannot  be  praiseless  which  doth  most  polish 
that  blessing  of  speech ;  which  considereth  each  word,  not 
only  as  a  man  may  say  by  his  forcible  quality,  but  by  his 
best  measured  quantity;  carrying  even  in  themselves  a 
harmony ;  without,  perchance,  number,  measure,  order,  pro- 
portion be  in  our  time  grown  odious. 

But  lay  aside  the  just  praise  it  hath,  by  being  the  only  fit 
speech  for  music — music,  I  say,  the  most  divine  striker  of 
the  senses ;  thus  much  is  undoubtedly  true,  that  if  reading 
be  foolish  without  remembering,  memory  being  the  only 
treasure  of  knowledge,  those  words  which  are  fittest  for 
memory  are  likewise  most  convenient  for  knowledge. 
Now,  that  verse  far  exceedeth  prose  in  the  knitting  up  of 
the  memory,  the  reason  is  manifest :  the  words,  besides  their 
delight,  which  hath  a  great  affinity  to  memory,  being  so  set 
as  one  cannot  be  lost,  but  the  whole  work  fails ;  which  ac- 
cusing itself,  calleth  the  remembrance  back  to  itself,  and  so 
most  strongly  confirmeth  it.  Besides,  one  word  so,  as  it 
were,  begetting  another,  as  be  it  in  rhyme  or  measured 
verse,  by  the  former  man  shall  have  a  near  guess  to  the 
follower.  Lastly,  even  they  that  have  taught  the  art  of 
memory,  have  showed  nothing  so  apt  for  it  as  a  certain  room 
divided  into  many  places  well  and  thoroughly  known ;  now 
that  hath  the  verse  in  effect  perfectly,  every  word  having  his 


AN   APOLOGIE   FOR   POETRIE  141 

natural  seat,  which  seat  must  needs  make  the  word  remem- 
bered. But  what  needs  more  in  a  thing  so  known  to  all  men? 
Who  is  it  that  ever  was  a  scholar  that  doth  not  carry  away 
some  verses  of  Virgil,  Horace,  or  Cato,  which  in  his  youth  he 
learned,  and  even  to  his  old  age  serve  him  for  hourly  les- 
sons? as, 

"Percontatorem  fugito:  nam  garrulus  idem  est. 
Dum  sibi  quisque  placet  credula  turba  sumus." 

But  the  fitness  it  hath  for  memory  is  notably  proved  by  all 
delivery  of  arts,  wherein,  for  the  most  part,  from  grammar 
to  logic,  mathematics,  physic,  and  the  rest,  the  rules  chiefly 
necessary  to  be  borne  away  are  compiled  in  verses.  So  that 
verse  being  in  itself  sweet  and  orderly,  and  being  best  for 
memory,  the  only  handle  of  knowledge,  it  must  be  in  jest 
that  any  man  can  speak  against  it. 

Now  then  go  we  to  the  most  important  imputations  laid 
to  the  poor  poets;  for  aught  I  can  yet  learn,  they  are  these: 

First,  that  there  being  many  other  more  fruitful  knowl- 
edges, a  man  might  better  spend  his  time  in  them  than  in 
this. 

Secondly,  that  it  is  the  mother  of  lies. 

Thirdly,  that  it  is  the  nurse  of  abuse,  infecting  us  with 
many  pestilent  desires,  with  a  syren  sweetness,  drawing  the 
mind  to  the  serpent's  tail  of  sinful  fancies;  and  herein,  es- 
pecially, comedies  give  the  largest  field  to  ear,  as  Chaucer 
saith ;  how,  both  in  other  nations  and  ours,  before  poets  did 
soften  us,  we  were  full  of  courage,  given  to  martial  exer- 
cises, the  pillars  of  manlike  liberty,  and  not  lulled  asleep  in 
shady  idleness  with  poets'  pastimes. 

And  lastly  and  chiefly,  they  cry  out  with  open  mouth,  as 
if  they  had  overshot  Robin  Hood,  that  Plato  banished  them 
out  of  his  commonwealth.  Truly  this  is  much,  if  there  be 
much  truth  in  it. 

First,  to  the  first,  that  a  man  might  better  spend  his  time, 
is  a  reason  indeed;  but  it  doth,  as  they  say,  but  «petere 
principium.»  For  if  it  be,  as  I  affirm,  that  no  learning  is  so 
good  as  that  which  teacheth  and  moveth  to  virtue,  and  that 
none  can  both  teach  and  move  thereto  so  much  as  poesy, 
then  is  the  conclusion  manifest,  that  ink  and  paper  cannot 
be  to  a  more  profitable  purpose  employed.     And  certainly, 


i42  SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY 

though  a  man  should  grant  their  first  assumption,  it  should 
follow,  methinks,  very  unwillingly,  that  good  is  not  good 
because  better  is  better.  But  I  still  and  utterly  deny  that 
there  is  sprung  out  of  earth  a  more  fruitful  knowledge. 

To  the  second,  therefore,  that  they  should  be  the  principal 
liars,  I  answer  paradoxically,  but  truly,  I  think  truly,  that 
of  all  writers  under  the  sun,  the  poet  is  the  least  liar ;  and 
though  he  would,  as  a  poet,  can  scarcely  be  a  liar.  The 
astronomer,  with  his  cousin  the  geometrician,  can  hardly 
escape  when  they  take  upon  them  to  measure  the  height  of 
the  stars.  How  often,  think  you,  do  the  physicians  lie, 
when  they  aver  things  good  for  sicknesses,  which  afterwards 
send  Charon  a  great  number  of  souls  drowned  in  a  potion 
before  they  come  to  his  ferry.  And  no  less  of  the  rest  which 
take  upon  them  to  affirm.  Now  for  the  poet,  he  nothing 
affirmeth,  and  therefore  never  lieth ;  for,  as  I  take  it,  to  lie 
is  to  affirm  that  to  be  true  which  is  false ;  so  as  the  other 
artists,  and  especially  the  historian,  affirmeth  many  things, 
can,  in  the  cloudy  knowledge  of  mankind,  hardly  escape 
from  many  lies ;  but  the  poet,  as  I  said  before,  never  affirm- 
eth ;  the  poet  never  maketh  any  circles  about  your  imagina- 
tion, to  conjure  you  to  believe  for  true  what  he  writeth ;  he 
citeth  not  authorities  of  other  histories,  but  even  for  his 
entry  calleth  the  sweet  Muses  to  inspire  into  him  a  good  in- 
vention ;  in  truth,  not  laboring  to  tell  you  what  is  or  is  not, 
but  what  should  or  should  not  be.  And,  therefore,  though 
he  recount  things  not  true,  yet  because  he  telleth  them  not 
for  true  he  lieth  not ;  without  we  will  say  that  Nathan  lied  in 
his  speech,  before  alleged,  to  David;  which,  as  a  wicked 
man  durst  scarce  say,  so  think  I  none  so  simple  would  say, 
that  ^Esop  lied  in  the  tales  of  his  beasts ;  for  who  thinketh 
that  ^Esop  wrote  it  for  actually  true,  were  well  worthy  to 
have  his  name  chronicled  among  the  beasts  he  writeth  of. 
What  child  is  there  that  cometh  to  a  play,  and  seeing  Thebes 
written  in  great  letters  upon  an  old  door,  doth  believe  that 
it  is  Thebes?  If  then  a  man  can  arrive  to  the  child's  age, 
to  know  that  the  poet's  persons  and  doings  are  but  pictures 
what  should  be,  and  not  stories  what  have  been,  they  will 
never  give  the  lie  to  things  not  affirmatively,  but  allegori- 
cally  and  figuratively  written ;  and  therefore,  as  in  history, 


AN   APOLOGIE   FOR   POETRIE  143 

looking  for  truth,  they  may  go  away  full  fraught  with  false- 
hood, so  in  poesy,  looking  but  for  fiction,  they  shall  use  the 
narration  but  as  an  imaginative  ground-plot  of  a  profitable 
invention. 

But  hereto  is  replied,  that  the  poets  give  names  to  men 
they  write  of,  which  argueth  a  conceit  of  an  actual  truth, 
and  so,  not  being  true,  proveth  a  falsehood.  And  doth  the 
lawyer  lie  then,  when,  under  the  names  of  John  of  the  Stile, 
and  John  of  the  Nokes,  he  putteth  his  case?  But  that  is 
easily  answered,  their  naming  of  men  is  but  to  make  their 
picture  the  more  lively,  and  not  to  build  any  history.  Paint- 
ing men,  they  cannot  leave  men  nameless;  we  see  we  can- 
not play  at  chess,  but  that  we  must  give  names  to  our  chess- 
men ;  and  yet,  methinks,  he  were  a  very  partial  champion 
of  truth  that  would  say  we  lied  for  giving  a  piece  of  wood 
the  reverend  title  of  a  bishop.  The  poet  nameth  Cyrus  and 
^Eneas  no  other  way  than  to  show  what  men  of  their  fames, 
fortunes,  and  estates  should  do. 

Their  third  is,  how  much  it  abuseth  men's  wit,  training  it 
to  a  wanton  sinfulness  and  lustful  love.  For,  indeed,  that 
is  the  principal  if  not  only  abuse  I  can  hear  alleged.  They 
say  the  comedies  rather  teach,  than  reprehend,  amorous 
conceits;  they  say  the  lyric  is  larded  with  passionate  son- 
nets ;  the  elegiac  weeps  the  want  of  his  mistress ;  and  that 
even  to  the  heroical  Cupid  hath  ambitiously  climbed.  Alas ! 
Love,  I  would  thou  couldst  as  well  defend  thyself,  as  thou 
canst  offend  others!  I  would  those  on  whom  thou  dost  at- 
tend, could  either  put  thee  away  or  yield  good  reason  why 
they  keep  thee !  But  grant  love  of  beauty  to  be  a  beastly 
fault,  although  it  be  very  hard,  since  only  man,  and  no  beast, 
hath  that  gift  to  discern  beauty ;  grant  that  lovely  name  of 
love  to  deserve  all  hateful  reproaches,  although  even  some 
of  my  masters  the  philosophers  spent  a  good  deal  of  their 
lamp-oil  in  setting  forth  the  excellency  of  it ;  grant,  I  say, 
what  they  will  have  granted,  that  not  only  love,  but  lust, 
but  vanity,  but,  if  they  list,  scurrility,  possess  many  leaves 
of  the  poets'  books;  yet,  think  I,  when  this  is  granted,  they 
will  find  their  sentence  may,  with  good  manners,  put  the 
last  words  foremost ;  and  not  say  that  poetry  abuseth  man's 
wit,  but  that  man's  wit  abuseth  poetry.     For  I  will  not  deny 


144  SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY 

but  that  man's  wit  may  make  poesy,  which  should  be  ppaffrtzt), 
which  some  learned  have  defined,  figuring  forth  good  things, 
to  be  (pavTaarixrj,  which  doth  contrariwise  infect  the  fancy 
with  unworthy  objects;  as  the  painter,  who  should  give  to 
the  eye  either  some  excellent  perspective,  or  some  fine  pic- 
ture fit  for  building  or  fortification,  or  containing  in  it  some 
notable  example,  as  Abraham  sacrificing  his  son  Isaac, 
Judith  killing  Holofernes,  David  fighting  with  Goliath,  may 
leave  those  and  please  an  ill-pleased  eye  with  wanton  shows 
of  better  hidden  matters. 

But,  what !  shall  the  abuse  of  a  thing  make  the  right  use 
odious?  Nay,  truly,  though  I  yield  that  poesy  may  not  only 
be  abused,  but  that  being  abused,  by  the  reason  of  his  sweet 
charming  force,  it  can  do  more  hurt  than  any  other  army  of 
words,  yet  shall  it  be  so  far  from  concluding,  that  the  abuse 
shall  give  reproach  to  the  abused,  that,  contrariwise,  it  is  a 
good  reason,  that  whatsoever  being  abused,  doth  most  harm, 
being  rightly  used  (and  upon  the  right  use  each  thing  re- 
ceives his  title)  doth  most  good.  Do  we  not  see  skill  of 
physic,  the  best  rampire1  to  our  often  assaulted  bodies, 
being  abused,  teach  poison,  the  most  violent  destroyer? 
Doth  not  knowledge  of  law,  whose  end  is  to  even  and  right 
all  things,  being  abused,  grow  the  crooked  fosterer  of  hor- 
rible injuries?  Doth  not  (to  go  in  the  heights)  God's  word 
abused  breed  heresy,  and  His  name  abused  become  blas- 
phemy? Truly,  a  needle  cannot  do  much  hurt,  and  as  truly 
(with  leave  of  ladies  be  it  spoken)  it  cannot  do  much  good. 
With  a  sword  thou  mayest  kill  thy  father,  and  with  a  sword 
thou  mayest  defend  thy  prince  and  country ;  so  that,  as  in 
their  calling  poets  fathers  of  lies,  they  said  nothing,  so  in 
this  their  argument  of  abuse,  they  prove  the  commendation. 

They  allege  herewith,  that  before  poets  began  to  be  in 
price,  our  nation  had  set  their  heart's  delight  upon  action, 
and  not  imagination ;  rather  doing  things  worthy  to  be  writ- 
ten, than  writing  things  fit  to  be  done.  What  that  before 
time  was,  I  think  scarcely  Sphynx  can  tell ;  since  no  mem- 
ory is  so  ancient  that  gives  not  the  precedence  to  poetry. 
And  certain  it  is,  that,  in  our  plainest  homeliness,  yet  never 

1  Rampire,  rampart,  the  Old  French  form  of  "rampart,"  was  "ram- 
par,"  from  "remparer,"  to  fortify. 


AN   APOLOGIE   FOR   POETRIE  145 

was  the  Albion  nation  without  poetry.  Marry,  this  argu- 
ment, though  it  be  levelled  against  poetry,  yet  it  is  indeed 
a  chain-shot  against  all  learning  or  bookishness,  as  they 
commonly  term  it.  Of  such  mind  were  certain  Goths,  of 
whom  it  is  written,  that  having  in  the  spoil  of  a  famous  city 
taken  a  fair  library,  one  hangman,  belike  fit  to  execute  the 
fruits  of  their  wits,  who  had  murdered  a  great  number  of 
bodies,  would  have  set  fire  in  it.  «  No,»  said  another,  very 
gravely,  « take  heed  what  you  do,  for  while  they  are  busy 
about  those  toys,  we  shall  with  more  leisure  conquer  their 
countries.))  This,  indeed,  is  the  ordinary  doctrine  of  igno- 
rance, and  many  words  sometimes  I  have  heard  spent  in  it; 
but  because  this  reason  is  generally  against  all  learning,  as 
well  as  poetry,  or  rather  all  learning  but  poetry;  because  it 
were  too  large  a  digression  to  handle  it,  or  at  least  too  super- 
fluous, since  it  is  manifest  that  all  government  of  action  is 
to  be  gotten  by  knowledge,  and  knowledge  best  by  gather- 
ing many  knowledges,  which  is  reading;  I  only  say  with 
Horace,  to  him  that  is  of  that  opinion, 

"  Jubeo  stultum  esse  libenter "  ' 

for  as  for  poetry  itself,  it  is  the  freest  from  this  objection, 
for  poetry  is  the  companion  of  camps.  I  dare  undertake, 
Orlando  Furioso,  or  honest  King  Arthur,  will  never  displease 
a  soldier :  but  the  quiddity  of  «  ens  »  and  «  prima  materia » 
will  hardly  agree  with  a  corselet.  And,  therefore,  as  I  said 
in  the  beginning,  even  Turks  and  Tartars  are  delighted 
with  poets.  Homer,  a  Greek,  flourished  before  Greece  flour- 
ished; and  if  to  a  slight  conjecture  a  conjecture  may  be 
opposed,  truly  it  may  seem,  that  as  by  him  their  learned 
men  took  almost  their  first  light  of  knowledge,  so  their  active 
men  receive  their  first  notions  of  courage.  Only  Alexan- 
der's example  may  serve,  who  by  Plutarch  is  accounted  of 
such  virtue  that  fortune  was  not  his  guide  but  his  footstool ; 
whose  acts  speak  for  him,  though  Plutarch  did  not ;  indeed, 
the  phoenix  of  warlike  princes.  This  Alexander  left  his 
schoolmaster,  living  Aristotle,  behind  him,  but  took  dead 
Homer  with  him.  He  put  the  philosopher  Callisthenes  to 
death,  for  his  seeming  philosophical,  indeed  mutinous,  stub- 

1  "I  give  him  free  leave  to  be  foolish." 
10 


146  SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY 

bornness ;  but  the  chief  thing  he  was  ever  heard  to  wish 
for  was  that  Homer  had  been  alive.  He  well  found  he  re- 
ceive more  bravery  of  mind  by  the  pattern  of  Achilles,  than 
by  hearing  the  definition  of  fortitude.  And,  therefore,  if 
Cato  misliked  Fulvius  for  carrying  Ennius  with  him  to  the 
field,  it  may  be  answered  that  if  Cato  misliked  it  the  noble 
Fulvius  liked  it,  or  else  he  had  not  done  it ;  for  it  was  not 
the  excellent  Cato  Uticensis  whose  authority  I  would  much 
more  have  reverenced,  but  it  was  the  former,  in  truth  a 
bitter  punisher  of  faults,  but  else  a  man  that  had  never  sac- 
rificed to  the  Graces.  He  misliked,  and  cried  out  against, 
all  Greek  learning,  and  yet,  being  fourscore  years  old,  began 
to  learn  it,  belike  fearing  that  Pluto  understood  not  Latin. 
Indeed,  the  Roman  laws  allowed  no  person  to  be  carried  to 
the  wars  but  he  that  was  in  the  soldiers'  roll.  And,  there- 
fore, though  Cato  misliked  his  unmustered  person,  he  mis- 
liked not  his  work.  And  if  he  had,  Scipio  Nasica  (judged 
by  common  consent  the  best  Roman)  loved  him :  both  the 
other  Scipio  brothers,  who  had  by  their  virtues  no  less  sur- 
names than  of  Asia  and  Africa,  so  loved  him  that  they 
caused  his  body  to  be  buried  in  their  sepulture.  So,  as  Cato's 
authority  being  but  against  his  person,  and  that  answered 
with  so  far  greater  than  himself,  is  herein  of  no  validity. 

But  now,  indeed,  my  burthen  is  great,  that  Plato's  name 
is  laid  upon  me,  whom,  I  must  confess,  of  all  philosophers  I 
have  ever  esteemed  most  worthy  of  reverence;  and  with 
good  reason,  since  of  all  philosophers  he  is  the  most  poet- 
ical ;  yet  if  he  will  defile  the  fountain  out  of  which  his  flow- 
ing streams  have  proceeded,  let  us  boldly  examine  with 
what  reason  he  did  it. 

First,  truly,  a  man  might  maliciously  object  that  Plato, 
being  a  philosopher,  was  a  natural  enemy  of  poets.  For, 
indeed,  after  the  philosophers  had  picked  out  of  the  sweet 
mysteries  of  poetry  the  right  discerning  of  true  points  of 
knowledge,  they  forthwith,  putting  it  in  method,  and  mak- 
ing a  school  of  art  of  that  which  the  poets  did  only  teach  by 
a  divine  delightfulness,  beginning  to  spurn  at  their  guides, 
like  ungrateful  apprentices,  were  not  content  to  set  up  shop 
for  themselves,  but  sought  by  all  means  to  discredit  their 
masters ;  which,  by  the  force  of  delight  being  barred  them, 


AN  APOLOGIE   FOR   POETRIE  147 

the  less  they  could  overthrow  them,  the  more  they  hated 
them.  For,  indeed,  they  found  for  Homer  seven  cities 
strove  who  should  have  him  for  their  citizen,  where  many 
cities  banished  philosophers  as  not  fit  members  to  live  among 
them.  For  only  repeating  certain  of  Euripides'  verses  many 
Athenians  had  their  lives  saved  of  the  Syracusans,  where 
the  Athenians  themselves  thought  many  of  the  philosophers 
unworthy  to  live.  Certain  poets,  as  Simonides  and  Pindar, 
had  so  prevailed  with  Hiero  the  First,  that  of  a  tyrant  they 
made  him  a  just  king;  where  Plato  could  do  so  little  with 
Dionysius  that  he  himself,  of  a  philosopher,  was  made  a 
slave.  But  who  should  do  thus,  I  confess,  should  requite 
the  objections  raised  against  poets  with  like  cavillations 
against  philosophers;  as  likewise  one  should  do  that  should 
bid  one  read  Phsedrus  or  Symposium  in  Plato,  or  the  dis- 
course of  Love  in  Plutarch,  and  see  whether  any  poet  do 
authorize  abominable  filthiness  as  they  do. 

Again,  a  man  might  ask,  out  of  what  Commonwealth 
Plato  doth  banish  them?  In  sooth,  thence  where  he  himself 
alloweth  community  of  women.  So,  as  belike  this  banish- 
ment grew  not  for  effeminate  wantonness,  since  little  should 
poetical  sonnets  be  hurtful,  when  a  man  might  have  what 
woman  he  listed.  But  I  honor  philosophical  instructions, 
and  bless  the  wits  which  bred  them,  so  as  they  be  not 
abused,  which  is  likewise  stretched  to  poetry.  Saint  Paul 
himself  sets  a  watchword  upon  philosophy,  indeed  upon  the 
abuse.  So  doth  Plato  upon  the  abuse,  not  upon  poetry. 
Plato  found  fault  that  the  poets  of  his  time  filled  the  world 
with  wrong  opinions  of  the  gods,  making  light  tales  of  that 
unspotted  essence,  and  therefore  would  not  have  the  youth 
depraved  with  such  opinions.  Herein  may  much  be  said ; 
let  this  suffice ;  the  poets  did  not  induce  such  opinions,  but 
did  imitate  those  opinions  already  induced.  For  all  the 
Greek  stories  can  well  testify  that  the  very  religion  of  that 
time  stood  upon  many  and  many-fashioned  gods ;  not  taught 
so  by  poets,  but  followed  according  to  their  nature  of  imita- 
tion. Who  list  may  read  in  Plutarch  the  discourses  of  Isis 
and  Osiris,  of  the  cause  why  oracles  ceased,  of  the  Divine 
providence,  and  see  whether  the  theology  of  that  nation 
stood  not  upon  such  dreams,  which  the  poets  indeed  super- 


i48  SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY 

stitiously  observed ;  and  truly,  since  they  had  not  the  light 
of  Christ,  did  much  better  in  it  than  the  philosophers,  who, 
shaking-  off  superstition,  brought  in  atheism. 

Plato,  therefore,  whose  authority  I  had  much  rather 
justly  construe  than  unjustly  resist,  meant  not  in  general  of 
poets,  in  those  words  of  which  Julius  Scaliger  saith,  « qua 
authoritate,  barbari  quidam  atque  insipidi,  abuti  velint  ad 
poetas  e  republica  exigendos  »  : l  but  only  meant  to  drive  out 
those  wrong  opinions  of  the  Deity,  whereof  now,  without 
farther  law,  Christianity  hath  taken  away  all  the  hurtful 
belief,  perchance  as  he  thought  nourished  by  then  esteemed 
poets.  And  a  man  need  go  no  farther  than  to  Plato  himself 
to  know  his  meaning;  who,  in  his  dialogue  called  «Ion,» 
giveth  high,  and  rightly,  divine  commendation  unto  poetry. 
So  as  Plato,  banishing  the  abuse,  not  the  thing,  not  banish- 
ing it,  but  giving  due  honor  to  it,  shall  be  our  patron,  and 
not  our  adversary.  For,  indeed,  I  had  much  rather,  since 
truly  I  may  do  it,  show  their  mistaking  of  Plato,  under  whose 
lion's  skin  they  would  make  an  ass-like  •  braying  against 
poesy,  than  go  about  to  overthrow  his  authority;  whom, 
the  wiser  a  man  is,  the  more  just  cause  he  shall  find  to  have 
in  admiration;  especially  since  he  attributeth  unto  poesy 
more  than  myself  do,  namely,  to  be  a  very  inspiring  of  a 
divine  force,  far  above  man's  wit,  as  in  the  fore-named  dia- 
logue is  apparent. 

Of  the  other  side,  who  would  show  the  honors  have  been 
by  the  best  sort  of  judgments  granted  them,  a  whole  sea  of 
examples  would  present  themselves;  Alexanders,  Caesars, 
Scipios,  all  favorers  of  poets;  Laelius,  called  the  Roman 
Socrates  himself  a  poet ;  so  as  part  of  Heautontimeroumenos, 
in  Terence,  was  supposed  to  be  made  by  him.  And  even  the 
Greek  Socrates,  whom  Apollo  confirmed  to  be  the  only  wise 
man,  is  said  to  have  spent  part  of  his  old  time  in  putting 
^Esop's  Fables  into  verse;  and,  therefore,  full  evil  should 
it  become  his  scholar  Plato  to  put  such  words  in  his  master's 
mouth  against  poets.  But  what  needs  more?  Aristotle 
writes  the  «Art  of  Poesy » ;  and  why,  if  it  should  not  be 
written?     Plutarch  teacheth  the  use  to  be  gathered  of  them; 

1  Which  authority  certain  barbarous  and  insipid  writers  would  wrest 
into  meaning  that  poets  were  to  be  thrust  out  of  a  state. 


AN   APOLOGIE   FOR   POETRIE  149 

and  how,  if  they  should  not  be  read?  And  who  reads  Plu- 
tarch's either  history  or  philosophy,  shall  find  he  trimmeth 
both  their  garments  with  guards  of  poesy. 

But  I  list  not  to  defend  poesy  with  the  help  of  his  under- 
ling historiographer.  Let  it  suffice  to  have  showed  it  is  a 
fit  soil  for  praise  to  dwell  upon ;  and  what  dispraise  may  be 
set  upon  it  is  either  easily  overcome,  or  transformed  into 
just  commendation.  So  that  since  the  excellences  of  it  may 
be  so  easily  and  so  justly  confirmed,  and  the  low  creeping 
objections  so  soon  trodden  down;  it  not  being  an  art  of 
lies,  but  of  true  doctrine ;  not  of  effeminateness,  but  of  not 
able  stirring  of  courage;  not  of  abusing  man's  wit,  but  of 
strengthening  man's  wit;  not  banished,  but  honored  by 
Plato ;  let  us  rather  plant  more  laurels  for  to  in-garland  the 
poets'  heads  (which  honor  of  being  laureate,  as  besides  them 
only  triumphant  captains  were,  is  a  sufficient  authority  to 
show  the  price  they  ought  to  be  held  in)  than  suffer  the  ill- 
favored  breath  of  such  wrong  speakers  once  to  blow  upon 
the  clear  springs  of  poesy. 

But  since  I  have  run  so  long  a  career  in  this  matter,  me- 
thinks,  before  I  give  my  pen  a  full  stop,  it  shall  be  but  a 
little  more  lost  time  to  inquire,  why  England,  the  mother 
of  excellent  minds,  should  be  grown  so  hard  a  step-mother 
to  poets,  who  certainly  in  wit  ought  to  pass  all  others,  since 
all  only  proceeds  from  their  wit,  being,  indeed,  makers  of 
themselves,  not  takers  of  others.  How  can  I  but  exclaim, 
"Musa,  mihi  causas  memora,  quo  numiue  laeso  "?> 

Sweet  poesy !  that  hath  anciently  had  kings,  emperors,  sen- 
ators, great  captains,  such  as,  besides  a  thousand  others, 
David,  Adrian,  Sophocles,  Germanicus,  not  only  to  favor 
poets,  but  to  be  poets;  and  of  our  nearer  times  can  present 
for  her  patrons,  a  Robert,  King  of  Sicily ;  the  great  King 
Francis  of  France ;  King  James  of  Scotland ;  such  cardinals 
as  Bembus  and  Bibiena;  such  famous  preachers  and  teach- 
ers as  Beza  and  Melancthon;  so  learned  philosophers  as 
Fracastorius  and  Scaliger ;  so  great  orators  as  Pontanus  and 
Muretus;   so  piercing  wits  as  George  Buchanan;  so  grave 

'From  the  invocation  at  the  opening  of  Virgil's  ALneid  (line  12), 
"Muse,  bring  to  my  mind  the  causes  of  these  things:  what  divinity 
was  injured  .  .  .  that  one  famous  for  piety  should  suffer  thus." 


150  SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY 

councillors  as,  besides  many,  but  before  all,  that  Chancellor 
Hospital  of  France,  than  whom,  I  think,  that  realm  never 
brought  forth  a  more  accomplished  judgment  more  firmly 
builded  upon  virtue ;  I  say  these,  with  numbers  of  others, 
not  only  to  read  others'  poesies,  but  to  poetize  for  others' 
reading:  that  poesy,  thus  embraced  in  all  other  places, 
should  only  find  in  our  time  a  hard  welcome  in  England,  I 
think  the  very  earth  laments  it,  and  therefore  decks  our  soil 
with  fewer  laurels  than  it  was  accustomed.  For  heretofore 
poets  have  in  England  also  flourished ;  and,  which  is  to  be 
noted,  even  in  those  times  when  the  trumpet  of  Mars  did 
sound  loudest.  And  now  that  an  over-faint  quietness  should 
seem  to  strew  the  house  for  poets,  they  are  almost  in  as 
good  reputation  as  the  mountebanks  at  Venice.  Truly,  even 
that,  as  of  the  one  side  it  giveth  great  praise  to  poesy,  which, 
like  Venus  (but  to  better  purpose),  had  rather  be  troubled 
in  the  net  with  Mars,  than  enjoy  the  homely  quiet  of  Vul- 
can ;  so  serveth  it  for  a  piece  of  a  reason  why  they  are  less 
grateful  to  idle  England,  which  now  can  scarce  endure  the 
pain  of  a  pen.  Upon  this  necessarily  followeth  that  base 
men  with  servile  wits  undertake  it,  who  think  it  enough  if 
they  can  be  rewarded  of  the  printer ;  and  so  as  Epaminondas 
is  said,  with  the  honor  of  his  virtue,  to  have  made  an  office 
by  his  exercising  it,  which  before  was  contemptible,  to  be- 
come highly  respected ;  so  these  men,  no  more  but  setting 
their  names  to  it,  by  their  own  disgracefulness,  disgrace 
the  most  graceful  poesy.  For  now,  as  if  all  the  Muses  were 
got  with  child,  to  bring  forth  bastard  poets,  without  any 
commission,  they  do  post  over  the  banks  of  Helicon,  until 
they  make  their  readers  more  weary  than  post-horses ;  while, 
in  the  meantime,  the3% 

"Queis  meliore  luto  finxit  prsecordia  Titan,"  ' 

are  better  content  to  suppress  the  outflowings  of  their  wit, 
than  by  publishing  them  to  be  accounted  knights  of  the 
same  order. 

But  I  that,  before  ever  I  durst  aspire  unto  the  dignity, 
am  admitted  into  the  company  of  the  paper-blurrers,  do  find 

1  Whose  heart-strings  the  Titan  (Prometheus)  fastened  with  a  bet- 
ter clay. 


AN   APOLOGIE   FOR   POETRIE  151 

the  very  true  cause  of  our  wanting  estimation  is  want  of 
desert,  taking  upon  us  to  be  poets  in  despite  of  Pallas. 
Now,  wherein  we  want  desert,  were  a  thankworthy  labor  to 
express.  But  if  I  knew,  I  should  have  mended  myself;  but 
as  I  never  desired  the  title  so  have  I  neglected  the  means  to 
come  by  it ;  only,  overmastered  by  some  thoughts,  I  yielded 
an  inky  tribute  unto  them.  Marry,  they  that  delight  in 
poesy  itself,  should  seek  to  know  what  they  do,  and  how 
they  do,  especially  look  themselves  in  an  unflattering  glass 
of  reason,  if  they  be  inclinable  unto  it. 

For  poesy  must  not  be  drawn  by  the  ears,  it  must  be 
gently  led,  or  rather  it  must  lead;  which  was  partly  the 
cause  that  made  the  ancient  learned  affirm  it  was  a  divine, 
and  no  human  skill,  since  all  other  knowledges  lie  ready  for 
any  that  have  strength  of  wit ;  a  poet  no  industry  can  make, 
if  his  own  genius  be  not  carried  into  it.  And  therefore  is 
an  old  proverb,  «  Orator  fit,  poeta  nascitur.w  Yet  confess  I 
always,  that  as  the  fertilest  ground  must  be  manured,  so 
must  the  highest  flying  wit  have  a  Daedalus  to  guide  him. 
That  Daedalus,  they  say,  both  in  this  and  in  other,  hath 
three  wings  to  bear  itself  up  into  the  air  of  due  commenda- 
tion ;  that  is  art,  imitation,  and  exercise.  But  these,  neither 
artificial  rules,  nor  imitative  patterns,  we  much  cumber 
ourselves  withal.  Exercise,  indeed,  we  do,  but  that  very 
f orebackwardly ;  for  where  we  should  exercise  to  know,  we 
exercise  as  having  known ;  and  so  is  our  brain  delivered  of 
much  matter  which  never  was  begotten  by  knowledge.  For 
there  being  two  principal  parts,  matter  to  be  expressed  by 
words,  and  words  to  express  the  matter,  in  neither  we  use 
art  or  imitation  rightly.  Our  matter  is  «quodlibet,» '  in- 
deed, although  wrongly,  performing  Ovid's  verse, 

"Quicquid  conabor  dicere,  versus  erit ;  "  l 

never  marshalling  it  into  any  assured  rank,  that  almost  the 
readers  cannot  tell  where  to  find  themselves. 

Chaucer,  undoubtedly,  did  excellently  in  his  Troilus  and 
Cressida ;  of  whom,  truly,  I  know  not  whether  to  marvel 
more,  either  that  he  in  that  misty  time  could  see  so  clearly, 

1  What  you  will ;  the  first  that  comes. 
'"Whatever  I  shall  try  to  write  will  be  verse." 


152  SIR  PHILIP   SIDNEY 

or  that  we  in  this  clear  age  go  so  stumblingly  after  him. 
Yet  had  he  great  wants,  fit  to  be  forgiven  in  so  reverend 
antiquity.  I  account  the  Mirror  of  Magistrates  meetly  fur- 
nished of  beautiful  parts.  And  in  the  Earl  of  Surrey's 
Lyrics,  many  things  tasting  of  a  noble  birth,  and  worthy  of 
a  noble  mind.  The  « Shepherds'  Kalendar »  hath  much 
poesy  in  his  eclogues,  indeed,  worthy  the  reading,  if  I  be 
not  deceived.  That  same  framing  of  his  style  to  an  old  rus- 
tic language,  I  dare  not  allow ;  since  neither  Theocritus  in 
Greek,  Virgil  in  Latin,  nor  Sannazaro  in  Italian,  did  affect 
it.  Besides  these,  I  do  not  remember  to  have  seen  but  few 
(to  speak  boldly)  printed  that  have  poetical  sinews  in  them. 
For  proof  whereof,  let  but  most  of  the  verses  be  put  in  prose, 
and  then  ask  the  meaning,  and  it  will  be  found  that  one 
verse  did  but  beget  another,  without  ordering  at  the  first 
what  should  be  at  the  last;  which  becomes  a  confused  mass 
of  words,  with  a  tinkling  sound  of  rhyme,  barely  accom- 
panied with  reason. 

1  Our  tragedies  and  comedies,  not  without  cause,  are  cried 
out  against,  observing  rules  neither  of  honest  civility  nor 
skilful  poetry.  Excepting  Gorboduc  (again  I  say  of  those 
that  I  have  seen),  which  notwithstanding,  as  it  is  full  of 
stately  speeches,  and  well-sounding  phrases,  climbing  to  the 
height  of  Seneca  his  style,  and  as  full  of  notable  morality, 
which  it  does  most  delightfully  teach,  and  so  obtain  the  very 
end  of  poesy ;  yet,  in  truth,  it  is  very  defectuous  in  the  cir- 
cumstances, which  grieves  me,  because  it  might  not  remain 
as  an  exact  model  of  all  tragedies.  For  it  is  faulty  both  in 
place  and  time,  the  two  necessary  companions  of  all  corporal 
actions.  For  where  the  stage  should  always  represent  but 
one  place ;  and  the  uttermost  time  presupposed  in  it  should 
be,  both  by  Aristotle's  precept,  and  common  reason,  but 
one  day;  there  is  both  many  days  and  many  places  inartifi- 
cially  imagined. 

But  if  it  be  so  in  Gorboduc,  how  much  more  in  all  the  rest? 
where  you  shall  have  Asia  of  the  one  side,  and  Afric  of  the 
other,  and  so  many  other  under  kingdoms,  that  the  player, 

1  This  was  written  when  the  English  drama  was  but  twenty  years 
old,  and  Shakespeare,  aged  about  seventeen,  had  not  yet  come  to  Lon- 
don. 


AN   APOLOGIE   FOR   POETRIE  153 

when  he  comes  in,  must  ever  begin  with  telling  where  he  is, 
or  else  the  tale  will  not  be  conceived.  Now  shall  you  have 
three  ladies  walk  to  gather  flowers,  and  then  we  must  be- 
lieve the  stage  to  be  a  garden.  By  and  by,  we  hear  news  of 
shipwreck  in  the  same  place,  then  we  are  to  blame  if  we 
accept  it  not  for  a  rock.  Upon  the  back  of  that  comes  out 
a  hideous  monster  with  fire  and  smoke,  and  then  the  miser- 
able beholders  are  bound  to  take  it  for  a  cave ;  while,  in  the 
meantime,  two  armies  fly  in,  represented  with  four  swords 
and  bucklers,  and  then,  what  hard  heart  will  not  receive  it 
for  a  pitched  field? 

Now  of  time  they  are  much  more  liberal;  for  ordinary  it 
is,  that  two  young  princes  fall  in  love ;  after  many  traverses 
she  is  got  with  child;  delivered  of  a  fair  boy;  he  is  lost, 
groweth  a  man,  falleth  in  love,  and  is  ready  to  get  another 
child ;  and  all  this  in  two  hours'  space ;  which,  how  absurd 
it  is  in  sense,  even  sense  may  imagine ;  and  art  hath  taught 
and  all  ancient  examples  justified,  and  at  this  day  the  ordi- 
nary players  in  Italy  will  not  err  in.  Yet  will  some  bring  in 
an  example  of  the  Eunuch  in  Terence,  that  containeth  mat- 
ter of  two  days,  yet  far  short  of  twenty  years.  True  it  is, 
and  so  was  it  to  be  played  in  two  days,  and  so  fitted  to  the 
time  it  set  forth.  And  though  Plautus  have  in  one  place 
done  amiss,  let  us  hit  it  with  him,  and  not  miss  with  him. 
But  they  will  say,  How  then  shall  we  set  forth  a  story  which 
contains  both  many  places  and  many  times?  And  do  they 
not  know,  that  a  tragedy  is  tied  to  the  laws  of  poesy,  and 
not  of  history;  not  bound  to  follow  the  story,  but  having 
liberty  either  to  feign  a  quite  new  matter,  or  to  frame  the 
history  to  the  most  tragical  convenience?  Again,  many 
things  may  be  told,  which  cannot  be  showed ;  if  they  know 
the  difference  betwixt  reporting  and  representing.  As  for 
example,  I  may  speak,  though  I  am  here,  of  Peru,  and  in 
speech  digress  from  that  to  the  description  of  Calicut;  but 
in  action  I  cannot  represent  it  without  Pacolet's  horse.  And 
so  was  the  manner  the  ancients  took  by  some  «  Nuntius,»  to 
recount  things  done  in  former  time,  or  other  place. 

Lastly,  if  they  will  represent  an  history,  they  must  not, 
as  Horace  saith,  begin  «ab  ovo,»  but  they  must  come  to  the 
principal  point  of  that  one  action  which  they  will  represent. 


i54  SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY 

By  example  this  will  be  best  expressed ;  I  have  a  story  of 
young  Polydorus,  delivered,  for  safety's  sake,  with  great 
riches,  by  his  father  Priamus  to  Polymnestor,  King  of 
Thrace,  in  the  Trojan  war  time.  He,  after  some  years, 
hearing  of  the  overthrow  of  Priamus,  for  to  make  the  treas- 
ure his  own,  murdereth  the  child ;  the  body  of  the  child  is 
taken  up ;  Hecuba,  she,  the  same  day,  findeth  a  sleight  to 
be  revenged  most  cruelly  of  the  tyrant.  Where,  now,  would 
one  of  our  tragedy  writers  begin,  but  with  the  delivery  of 
the  child?  Then  should  he  sail  over  into  Thrace,  and  so 
spend  I  know  not  how  many  years,  and  travel  numbers  of 
places.  But  where  doth  Euripides?  Even  with  the  finding 
of  the  body ;  leaving  the  rest  to  be  told  by  the  spirit  of  Poly- 
dorus. This  needs  no  farther  to  be  enlarged ;  the  dullest 
wit  may  conceive  it. 

But,  besides  these  gross  absurdities,  how  all  their  plays 
be  neither  right  tragedies  nor  right  comedies,  mingling 
kings  and  clowns,  not  because  the  matter  so  carrieth  it,  but 
thrust  in  the  clown  by  head  and  shoulders  to  play  a  part  in 
majestical  matters,  with  neither  decency  nor  discretion ;  so 
as  neither  the  admiration  and  commiseration,  nor  the  right 
sportfulness,  is  by  their  mongrel  tragi-comedy  obtained.  I 
know  Apuleius  did  somewhat  so,  but  that  is  a  thing  re- 
counted with  space  of  time,  not  represented  in  one  moment : 
and  I  know  the  ancients  have  one  or  two  examples  of  tragi- 
comedies as  Plautus  hath  Amphytrio.  But,  if  we  mark  them 
well,  we  shall  find,  that  they  never,  or  very  daintily,  match 
hornpipes  and  funerals.  So  falleth  it  out,  that  having  in- 
deed no  right  comedy  in  that  comical  part  of  our  tragedy, 
we  have  nothing  but  scurrility,  unworthy  of  any  chaste 
ears;  or  some  extreme  show  of  doltishness,  indeed  fit  to  lift 
up  a  loud  laughter,  and  nothing  else ;  where  the  whole  tract 
of  a  comedy  should  be  full  of  delight ;  as  the  tragedy  should 
be  still  maintained  in  a  well-raised  admiration. 

But  our  comedians  think  there  is  no  delight  without 
laughter,  which  is  very  wrong;  for  though  laughter  may 
come  with  delight,  yet  cometh  it  not  of  delight,  as  though 
delight  should  be  the  cause  of  laughter;  but  well  may  one 
thing  breed  both  together.  Nay,  in  themselves,  they  have, 
as  it  were,  a  kind  of  contrariety.     For  delight  we  scarcely 


AN   APOLOGIE   FOR   POETRIE  155 

do,  but  in  things  that  have  a  conveniency  to  ourselves,  or 
to  the  general  nature.  Laughter  almost  ever  cometh  of 
things  most  disproportioned  to  ourselves  and  nature :  delight 
hath  a  joy  in  it  either  permanent  or  present ;  laughter  hath 
only  a  scornful  tickling.  For  example:  we  are  ravished 
with  delight  to  see  a  fair  woman,  and  yet  are  far  from  being 
moved  to  laughter;  we  laugh  at  deformed  creatures,  where- 
in certainly  we  cannot  delight;  we  delight  in  good  chances; 
we  laugh  at  mischances ;  we  delight  to  hear  the  happiness 
of  our  friends  and  country,  at  which  he  were  worthy  to  be 
laughed  at  that  would  laugh :  we  shall,  contrarily,  sometimes 
laugh  to  find  a  matter  quite  mistaken,  and  go  down  the  hill 
against  the  bias,  in  the  mouth  of  some  such  men,  as  for  the 
respect  of  them,  one  shall  be  heartily  sorrow  he  cannot 
choose  but  laugh,  and  so  is  rather  pained  than  delighted 
with  laughter.  Yet  deny  I  not,  but  that  they  may  go  well 
together;  for,  as  in  Alexander's  picture  well  set  out,  we 
delight  without  laughter,  and  in  twenty  mad  antics  we  laugh 
without  delight :  so  in  Hercules,  painted  with  his  great  beard 
and  furious  countenance,  in  a  woman's  attire,  spinning  at  Om- 
phale's  commandment,  it  breeds  both  delight  and  laughter; 
for  the  representing  of  so  strange  a  power  in  love  procures 
delight,  and  the  scornfulness  of  the  action  stirreth  laughter. 
But  I  speak  to  this  purpose,  that  all  the  end  of  the  comi- 
cal part  be  not  upon  such  scornful  matters  as  stir  laughter 
only,  but  mix  with  it  that  delightful  teaching  which  is  the 
end  of  poesy.  And  the  great  fault,  even  in  that  point  of 
laughter,  and  forbidden  plainly  by  Aristotle,  is,  that  they 
stir  laughter  in  sinful  things,  which  are  rather  execrable 
than  ridiculous;  or  in  miserable,  which  are  rather  to  be 
pitied  than  scorned.  For  what  is  it  to  make  folks  gape  at  a 
wretched  beggar,  and  a  beggarly  clown ;  or  against  the  law 
of  hospitality,  to  jest  at  strangers,  because  they  speak  not 
English  so  well  as  we  do?  what  do  we  learn,  since  it  is  certain, 

"Nil  habet  infelix  pauperatas  durius  in  se, 
Quara  quod  ridiculos,  homines  facit."  ' 

'Juvenal.   Sat.    Hi.,   lines    152-3.     Which    Samuel  Johnson  finely 
paraphrased  in  his  "  London  "  : 

"  Of  all  the  griefs  that  harass  the  distrest, 
Sure  the  most  bitter  is  a  scornful  jest." 


156  SIR   PHILrP   SIDNEY 

But  rather  a  busy  loving  courtier,  and  a  heartless  threat- 
ening Thraso;  a  self -wise  seeming  schoolmaster;  a  wry- 
transformed  traveller;  these,  if  we  saw  walk  in  stage 
names,  which  we  play  naturally,  therein  were  delightful 
laughter,  and  teaching  delightfulness;  as  in  the  other,  the 
tragedies  of  Buchanan '  do  justly  bring  forth  a  divine  ad- 
miration. 

But  I  have  lavished  out  too  many  words  of  this  play  mat- 
ter; I  do  it,  because,  as  they  are  excelling  parts  of  poesy, 
so  is  there  none  so  much  used  in  England,  and  none  can  be 
more  pitifully  abused ;  which,  like  an  unmannerly  daughter, 
showing  a  bad  education,  causeth  her  mother  Poesy's  hon- 
esty to  be  called  in  question. 

Other  sorts  of  poetry,  almost,  have  we  none,  but  that 
lyrical  kind  of  songs  and  sonnets,  which,  if  the  Lord  gave 
us  so  good  minds,  how  well  it  might  be  employed,  and  with 
how  heavenly  fruits,  both  private  and  public,  in  singing  the 
praises  of  the  immortal  beauty,  the  immortal  goodness  of 
that  God,  who  giveth  us  hands  to  write,  and  wits  to  con- 
ceive ;  of  which  we  might  well  want  words,  but  never  mat- 
ter ;  of  which  we  could  turn  our  eyes  to  nothing,  but  we 
should  ever  have  new  budding  occasions. 

But,  truly,  many  of  such  writings  as  come  under  the  ban- 
ner of  unresistible  love,  if  I  were  a  mistress,  would  never 
persuade  me  they  were  in  love ;  so  coldly  they  apply  fiery 
speeches,  as  men  that  had  rather  read  lover's  writings,  and 
so  caught  up  certain  swelling  phrases,  which  hang  together 
like  a  man  that  once  told  me,  « the  wind  was  at  northwest 
and  by  south, »  because  he  would  be  sure  to  name  winds 
enough ;  than  that,  in  truth,  they  feel  those  passions,  which 
easily,  as  I  think,  may  be  bewrayed  by  the  same  forcible- 
ness,  or  «energia»  (as  the  Greeks  call  it),  of  the  writer. 
But  let  this  be  a  sufficient,  though  short  note,  that  we  miss 
the  right  use  of  the  material  point  of  poesy. 

Now  for  the  outside  of  it,  which  is  words,  or  (as  I  may 
term  it)  diction,  it  is  even  well  worse ;  so  is  that  honey-flow- 
ing matron  eloquence,  apparelled,  or  rather  disguised,  in  a 

'George  Buchanan  (who  died  in  1582,  aged  seventy-six)  had  writ- 
ten in  earlier  life  four  Latin  tragedies,  when  Professor  of  Humanities 
at  Bordeaux,  with  Montaigne  in  his  class. 


AN   APOLOGIE   FOR   POETRIE  157 

courtesan-like  painted  affectation.  One  time  with  so  far- 
fetched words,  that  many  seem  monsters,  but  most  seem 
strangers  to  any  poor  Englishman :  another  time  with  cours- 
ing of  a  letter,  as  if  they  were  bound  to  follow  the  method 
of  a  dictionary ;  another  time  with  figures  and  flowers,  ex- 
tremely winter-starved. 

But  I  would  this  fault  were  only  peculiar  to  versifiers,  and 
had  not  as  large  possession  among  prose  printers:  and, 
which  is  to  be  marvelled,  among  many  scholars,  and,  which 
is  to  be  pitied,  among  some  preachers.  Truly,  I  could  wish 
(if  at  least  I  might  be  so  bold  to  wish,  in  a  thing  beyond 
the  reach  of  my  capacity)  the  diligent  imitators  of  Tully 
and  Demosthenes,  most  worthy  to  be  imitated,  did  not  so 
much  keep  Nizolian  paper-books  of  their  figures  and  phrases, 
as  by  attentive  translation,  as  it  were,  devour  them  whole, 
and  make  them  wholly  theirs.  For  now  they  cast  sugar  and 
spice  upon  every  dish  that  is  served  at  the  table :  like  those 
Indians,  not  content  to  wear  ear-rings  at  the  fit  and  natural 
place  of  the  ears,  but  they  will  thrust  jewels  through  their 
nose  and  lips,  because  they  will  be  sure  to  be  fine.  Tully, 
when  he  was  to  drive  out  Catiline,  as  it  were  with  a  thun- 
derbolt of  eloquence,  often  useth  the  figure  of  repetition, 
as  « vivet  et  vincit,  imo  in  senatum  venit,  imo  in  senatum 
venit,»  etc.1  Indeed,  inflamed  with  a  well-grounded  rage, 
he  would  have  his  words,  as  it  were,  double  out  of  his 
mouth;  and  so  do  that  artificially  which  we  see  men  in 
choler  do  naturally.  And  we,  having  noted  the  grace  of 
those  words,  hale  them  in  sometimes  to  a  familiar  epistle, 
when  it  were  too  much  choler  to  be  choleric. 

How  well,  store  of  «  similiter  cadences  »  doth  sound  with 
the  gravity  of  the  pulpit,  I  would  but  invoke  Demosthenes' 
soul  to  tell,  who  with  a  rare  daintiness  useth  them.  Truly, 
they  have  made  me  think  of  the  sophister,  that  with  too 
much  subtlety  would  prove  two  eggs  three,  and  though  he 
may  be  counted  a  sophister,  had  none  for  his  labor.  So 
these  men  bringing  in  such  a  kind  of  eloquence,  well  may 
they  obtain  an  opinion  of  a  seeming  fineness,  but  persuade 
few,  which  should  be  the  end  of  their  fineness. 

1  "He  lives  and  wins,  naj',  comes  to  the  Senate,  nay,  comes  to  the 
Senate, "  etc. 


158  SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY 

Now  for  similitudes  in  certain  printed  discourses,  I  think 
all  herbalists,  all  stories  of  beasts,  fowls,  and  fishes  are  rifled 
up,  that  they  may  come  in  multitudes  to  wait  upon  any  of 
our  conceits,  which  certainly  is  as  absurd  a  surfeit  to  the 
ears  as  is  possible.  For  the  force  of  a  similitude  not  being 
to  prove  anything  to  a  contrary  disputer,  but  only  to  explain 
to  a  willing  hearer :  when  that  is  done,  the  rest  is  a  most 
tedious  prattling,  rather  overswaying  the  memory  from  the 
purpose  whereto  they  were  applied,  than  any  whit  inform- 
ing the  judgment,  already  either  satisfied,  or  by  similitudes 
not  to  be  satisfied. 

For  my  part,  I  do  not  doubt,  when  Antonius  and  Crassus, 
the  great  forefathers  of  Cicero  in  eloquence,  the  one  (as 
Cicero  testifieth  of  them)  pretended  not  to  know  art,  the 
other  not  to  set  by  it,  because  with  a  plain  sensibleness  they 
might  win  credit  of  popular  ears,  which  credit  is  the  nearest 
step  to  persuasion  (which  persuasion  is  the  chief  mark  of 
oratory) ;  I  do  not  doubt,  I  say,  but  that  they  used  these 
knacks  very  sparingly ;  which  who  doth  generally  use,  any 
man  may  see,  doth  dance  to  his  own  music ;  and  so  to  be 
noted  by  the  audience,  more  careful  to  speak  curiously  than 
truly.  Undoubtedly  (at  least  to  my  opinion  undoubtedly) 
I  have  found  in  divers  small-learned  courtiers  a  more  sound 
style  than  in  some  professors  of  learning ;  of  which  I  can 
guess  no  other  cause,  but  that  the  courtier  following  that 
which  by  practice  he  findeth  fittest  to  nature,  therein  (though 
he  know  it  not)  doth  according  to  art,  though  not  by  art : 
where  the  other,  using  art  to  show  art,  and  not  hide  art  (as 
in  these  cases  he  should  do),  flieth  from  nature,  and  indeed 
abuseth  art. 

But  what !  methinks  I  deserve  to  be  pounded  for  straying 
from  poetry  to  oratory :  but  both  have  such  an  affinity  in 
the  wordish  considerations,  that  I  think  this  digression  will 
make  my  meaning  receive  the  fuller  understanding :  which 
is  not  to  take  upon  me  to  teach  poets  how  they  should  do, 
but  only  finding  myself  sick  among  the  rest,  to  show  some 
one  or  two  spots  of  the  common  infection  grown  among  the 
most  part  of  writers ;  that,  acknowledging  ourselves  some- 
what awry,  we  may  bend  to  the  right  use  both  of  matter  and 
manner:    whereto  our  language  giveth  us  great  occasion, 


AN   APOLOGIE   FOR   POETRIE  159 

being-,  indeed,  capable  of  any  excellent  exercising  of  it.  I 
know  some  will  say,  it  is  a  mingled  language :  and  why  not 
so  much  the  better,  taking  the  best  of  both  the  other?  An- 
other will  say,  it  wanteth  grammar.  Nay,  truly,  it  hath 
that  praise,  that  it  wants  not  grammar ;  for  grammar  it  might 
have,  but  needs  it  not ;  being  so  easy  in  itself,  and  so  void 
of  those  cumbersome  differences  of  cases,  genders,  moods, 
and  tenses ;  which,  I  think,  was  a  piece  of  the  tower  of  Baby- 
lon's curse,  that  a  man  should  be  put  to  school  to  learn  his 
mother  tongue.  But  for  the  uttering  sweetly  and  properly 
the  conceit  of  the  mind,  which  is  the  end  of  speech,  that 
hath  it  equally  with  any  other  tongue  in  the  world,  and  is 
particularly  happy  in  compositions  of  two  or  three  words 
together,  near  the  Greek,  far  beyond  the  Latin;  which  is 
one  of  the  greatest  beauties  can  be  in  a  language. 

Now,  of  versifying  there  are  two  sorts,  the  one  ancient, 
the  other  modern ;  the  ancient  marked  the  quantity  of  each 
syllable,  and  according  to  that  framed  his  verse ;  the  mod- 
ern, observing  only  number,  with  some  regard  of  the  ac- 
cent, the  chief  life  of  it  standeth  in  that  like  sounding  of  the 
words,  which  we  call  rhyme.  Whether  of  these  be  the  more 
excellent,  would  bear  many  speeches ;  the  ancient,  no  doubt 
more  fit  for  music,  both  words  and  time  observing  quantity; 
and  more  fit  lively  to  express  divers  passions,  by  the  low  or 
lofty  sound  of  the  well-weighed  syllable.  The  latter,  like- 
wise, with  his  rhyme  striketh  a  certain  music  to  the  ear; 
and,  in  fine,  since  it  doth  delight,  though  by  another  way, 
it  obtaineth  the  same  purpose ;  there  being  in  either,  sweet- 
ness, and  wanting  in  neither,  majesty.  Truly  the  English, 
before  any  vulgar  language  I  know,  is  fit  for  both  sorts ; 
for,  for  the  ancient,  the  Italian  is  so  full  of  vowels,  that  it 
must  ever  be  cumbered  with  elisions.  The  Dutch  so,  of  the 
other  side,  with  consonants,  that  they  cannot  yield  the  sweet 
sliding  fit  for  a  verse.  The  French,  in  his  whole  language, 
hath  not  one  word  that  hath  his  accent  in  the  last  syllable, 
saving  two,  called  antepenultima;  and  little  more  hath  the 
Spanish,  and  therefore  very  gracelessly  may  they  use  dac- 
tiles.     The  English  is  subject  to  none  of  these  defects. 

Now  for  rhyme,  though  we  do  not  observe  quantity,  we 
observe  the  accent  very  precisely,  which  other  languages 


160  SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY 

either  cannot  do,  or  will  not  do  so  absolutely.  That  « cae- 
sura,* or  breathing-place,  in  the  midst  of  the  verse,  neither 
Italian  nor  Spanish  have,  the  French  and  we  never  almost 
fail  of.  Lastly,  even  the  very  rhyme  itself  the  Italian  can- 
not put  in  the  last  syllable,  by  the  French  named  the  mas- 
culine rhyme,  but  still  in  the  next  to  the  last,  which  the 
French  call  the  female ;  or  the  next  before  that,  which  the 
Italian  calls  « sdrucciola » :  the  example  of  the  former  is, 
«buono,»  «suono»;  of  the  sdrucciola  is,  «femina,»  «semina.» 
The  French,  of  the  other  side,  hath  both  the  male,  as  «bon,» 
«son,»  and  the  female,  as  «plaise,»  «taise»;  but  the  «  sdruc- 
ciola)) he  hath  not;  where  the  English  hath  all  three,  as 
«due,»  «true,»  «  father,))  «rather,»  «  motion,))  «  potion  » ;  with 
much  more  which  might  be  said,  but  that  already  I  find  the 
trifling  of  this  discourse  is  much  too  much  enlarged. 

So  that  since  the  ever  praiseworthy  poesy  is  full  of  virtue, 
breeding  delightfulness,  and  void  of  no  gift  that  ought  to 
be  in  the  noble  name  of  learning;  since  the  blames  laid 
against  it  are  either  false  or  feeble ;  since  the  cause  why  it 
is  not  esteemed  in  England  is  the  fault  of  poet-apes,  not 
poets ;  since,  lastly,  our  tongue  is  most  fit  to  honor  poesy, 
and  to  be  honored  by  poesy;  I  conjure  you  all  that  have 
had  the  evil  luck  to  read  this  ink-wasting  toy  of  mine,  even 
in  the  name  of  the  Nine  Muses,  no  more  to  scorn  the  sacred 
mysteries  of  poesy ;  no  more  to  laugh  at  the  name  of  poets, 
as  though  they  were  next  inheritors  to  fools;  no  more  to 
jest  at  the  reverend  title  of  « a  rhymer » ;  but  to  believe, 
with  Aristotle,  that  they  were  the  ancient  treasurers  of  the 
Grecian's  divinity;  to  believe,  with  Bembus,  that  they  were 
the  first  bringers  in  of  all  civility ;  to  believe,  with  Scaliger, 
that  no  philosopher's  precepts  can  sooner  make  you  an  hon- 
est man,  than  the  reading  of  Virgil ;  to  believe,  with  Clau- 
serus,  the  translator  of  Cornutus,  that  it  pleased  the  heav- 
enly deity  by  Hesiod  and  Homer,  under  the  veil  of  fables, 
to  give  us  all  knowledge,  logic,  rhetoric,  philosophy  natural 
and  moral,  and  «quid  non?»  to  believe,  with  me,  that  there 
are  many  mysteries  contained  in  poetry,  which  of  purpose 
were  written  darkly,  lest  by  profane  wits  it  should  be  abused ; 
to  believe,  with  Landin,  that  they  are  so  beloved  of  the  gods 
that  whatsoever  they  write  proceeds  of  a  divine  fury.     Lastly, 


AN   APOLOGIE   FOR   POETRIE  161 

to  believe  themselves,  when  they  tell  you  they  will  make 
you  immortal  by  their  verses. 

Thus  doing,  your  names  shall  flourish  in  the  printers' 
shops :  thus  doing,  you  shall  be  of  kin  to  many  a  poetical 
preface ;  thus  doing,  you  shall  be  most  .air,  most  rich,  most 
wise,  most  all:  you  shall  dwell  upon  superlatives:  thus 
doing,  though  you  be  «Libertino  patre  natus,»  you  shall 
suddenly  grow  «  Herculea  proles, » 

"Si  quid  mea  Carmina  possunt:" 

thus  doing,  your  soul  shall  be  placed  with  Dante's  Beatrix, 
or  Virgil's  Anchises. 

But  if  (fie  of  such  a  but !)  you  be  born  so  near  the  dull- 
making  cataract  of  Nilus,  that  you  cannot  hear  the  planet  - 
like  music  of  poetry;  if  you  have  so  earth- creeping  a  mind, 
that  it  cannot  lift  itself  up  to  look  to  the  sky  of  poetry,  or 
rather,  by  a  certain  rustical  disdain,  will  become  such  a 
Mome,  as  to  be  a  Momus  of  poetry ;  then,  though  I  will  not 
wish  unto  you  the  ass's  ears  of  Midas,  nor  to  be  driven  by  a 
poet's  verses,  as  Bubonax  was,  to  hang  himself;  nor  to  be 
rhymed  to  death,  as  is  said  to  be  done  in  Ireland ;  yet  thus 
much  curse  I  must  send  you  in  the  behalf  of  all  poets ;  that 
while  you  live,  you  live  in  love,  and  never  get  favor,  for 
lacking  skill  of  a  sonnet ;  and  when  you  die,  your  memory 
die  from  the  earth  for  want  of  an  epitaph. 


ii 


THE   TABLE-TALK  OF 

JOHN    SELDEN 


363 


JOHN   SELDEN 


Selden  was  one  of  the  most  learned  men  of  his  day,  a  profound 
thinker  and  courageous.  Milton  considered  him  "the  chief  of  learned 
men  reputed  in  this  land."  His  sturdy  independence  kept  him  in  hot 
water  with  church  and  state ;  indeed,  he  was  obliged  on  one  occasion 
to  write  regretting  certain  expressions  against  the  former  in  his  "His- 
tory of  Tithes, "  though  he  did  not  retract  anything.  He  continued  to 
protest  against  the  oppressive  action  of  King  James,  and  his  emphatic 
advocacy  of  the  rights  of  the  people  caused  him  to  be  sent  to  the  Tower 
on  a  charge  of  sedition.  A  few  years  later  he  was  honored  by  being 
appointed  keeper  of  records  in  the  Tower. 

Among  his  works  the  "Treatise  on  Titles  of  Honour"  has  always 
been  a  recognized  authority.  Other  books  discourse  learnedly  upon 
subjects  as  varied  as  Greek  art,  heathen  mythology,  and  the  legal 
right  of  Britain  to  hold  dominion  over  her  surrounding  seas. 

Selden  was  born  in  Sussex  in  1584,  and  adopted  the  profession  of 
law.  He  was  a  prominent  member  of  Parliament  for  the  University 
of  Oxford,  in  which  capacity  he  used  his  influence  to  favor  learning 
and  promote  peace. 

The  "Table  Talk"  was  published  thirty-five  years  after  Selden's 
death  in  1654,  from  the  notes  collected  by  his  amanuensis  during 
twenty  years'  association.  The  racy  flavor  of  many  of  the  observa- 
tions, and  the  practical  wisdom  of  most  of  them,  have  given  the  "Table 
Talk  "  the  status  of  a  solid  book.  It  may  always  be  relied  on  to  be- 
guile a  spare  hour  with  profit  and  entertainment. 


164 


TABLE-TALK 


Authors'  Books. 

The  giving  a  bookseller  his  price  for  his  books  has  this 
advantage :  he  that  will  do  so  shall  have  the  refusal  of  what- 
soever comes  to  his  hand,  and  so  by  that  means  get  many 
things  which  otherwise  he  never  should  have  seen. 

In  answering  a  book,  'tis  best  to  be  short;  otherwise  he 
that  I  write  against  will  suspect  I  intend  to  weary  him,  not 
to  satisfy  him.  Besides,  in  being  long  I  shall  give  my  ad- 
versary a  huge  advantage ;  somewhere  or  other  he  will  pick 
a  hole. 

In  quoting  of  books,  quote  such  authors  as  are  usually 
read;  others  you  may  read  for  your  own  satisfaction,  but 
not  name  them. 

Quoting  of  authors  is  most  for  matter  of  fact,  and  then  I 
cite  them  as  I  would  produce  a  witness:  sometimes  for  a 
free  expression;  and  then  I  give  the  author  his  due,  and 
gain  myself  praise  by  reading  him. 

To  quote  a  modern  Dutchman,  where  I  may  use  a  classic 
author,  is  as  if  I  were  to  justify  my  reputation,  and  I  ne- 
glect all  persons  of  note  and  quality  that  know  me,  and  bring 
the  testimonial  of  the  scullion  in  the  kitchen. 

Canon  Law. 
If  I  would  study  the  canon  law  as  it  is  used  in  England,  I 
must  study  the  heads  here  in  use,  then  go  to  the  practisers 
in  those  courts  where  that  law  is  practised,  and  know  their 
customs.     So  for  all  the  study  in  the  world. 

Ceremony. 
Ceremony  keeps  up  all  things:    'tis  like  a  penny-glass  to  a 
rich  spirit,  or  some  excellent  water;   without  it  the  water 
were  spilt,  the  spirit  lost. 

165 


166  SELDEN'S 

Of  all  people,  ladies  have  no  reason  to  cry  down  cere- 
mony, for  they  take  themselves  slighted  without  it.  An 
they  were  not  used  with  ceremony,  with  compliments  and 
addresses,  with  legs  and  kissing  of  hands,  they  were  the 
pitifullest  creatures  in  the  world.  But  yet  methinks  to  kiss 
their  hands  after  their  lips,  as  some  do,  is  like  little  boys, 
that  after  they  eat  the  apple,  fall  to  the  paring  out  of  a  love 
they  have  to  the  apple. 

Changing  Sides. 

'Tis  the  trial  of  a  man  to  see  if  he  will  change  his  side ;  and 
if  he  be  so  weak  as  to  change  once,  he  will  change  again. 
Your  country  fellows  have  a  way  to  try  if  a  man  be  weak  in 
the  hams,  by  coming  behind  him  and  giving  him  a  blow  un- 
awares ;  if  he  bend  once,  he  will  bend  again. 

The  lords  that  fall  from  the  king  after  they  have  got  es- 
tates by  base  flattery  at  court  and  now  pretend  conscience, 
do  as  a  vintner,  that  when  he  first  sets  up,  you  may  go  to 
his  house,  and  carouse  there ;  but  when  he  grows  rich,  he 
turns  conscientious,  and  will  sell  no  wine  upon  the  Sabbath 
Day. 

Colonel  Goring,  serving  first  the  one  side  and  then  the 
other,  did  like  a  good  miller  that  knows  how  to  grind  which 
way  soever  the  wind  sits. 

Charity. 

Charity  to  strangers  is  enjoined  in  the  text.  By  strangers 
is  there  understood  those  that  are  not  of  our  own  kin, 
strangers  to  your  blood ;  not  those  you  cannot  tell  whence 
they  come :  that  is,  be  charitable  to  your  neighbors  whom 
you  know  to  be  honest  poor  people. 

Christmas. 

Christmas  succeeds  the  Saturnalia,  the  same  time,  the  same 
number  of  holy-days ;  then  the  master  waited  upon  the  ser- 
vant like  the  lord  of  misrule. 

Our  meats  and  our  spoiis,  much  of  them,  have  relation  to 
Church  works.  The  coffin  of  our  Christmas  pies,  in  shape 
long,  is  in  imitation  of  the  cratch ;  our  choosing  kings  and 
queens  on  Twelfth-night  hath  reference  to  the  three  kings. 


TABLE-TALK  167 

So,  likewise,  our  eating  of  fritters,  whipping  of  tops,  roast- 
ing of  herrings,  Jack  of  Lents,  etc. — they  were  all  in  imita- 
tion of  Church  works,  emblems  of  martyrdom.  Our  tansies 
at  Easter  have  reference  to  the  bitter  herbs ;  though,  at  the 
same  time,  it  was  always  the  fashion  for  a  man  to  have  a 
gammon  of  bacon  to  show  himself  to  be  no  Jew. 

Christians. 

In  the  High  Church  of  Jerusalem,  the  Christians  were  but 
another  sect  of  Jews,  that  did  believe  the  Messias  was 
come.  To  be  « called »  was  nothing  else  but  to  become  a 
Christian,  to  have  the  name  of  a  Christian,  it  being  their 
own  language;  for  amongst  the  Jews,  when  they  made  a 
doctor  of  law,  'twas  said  he  was  «  called.)) 

Turks  tell  their  people  of  a  heaven  where  there  is  sensi- 
ble pleasure,  but  of  a  hell  where  they  shall  suffer  they  don't 
know  what.  Christians  quite  invert  this  order ;  they  tell  us 
of  a  hell  where  we  shall  feel  sensible  pain,  but  of  a  heaven 
where  we  shall  enjoy  we  can't  tell  what. 

Church. 

Heretofore  the  kingdom  let  the  Church  alone,  let  them  do 
what  they  would,  because  they  had  something  else  to  think 
of,  viz. ,  wars ;  but  now  in  time  of  peace,  we  begin  to  exam- 
ine all  things,  will  have  nothing  but  what  we  like,  grow 
dainty  and  wanton;  just  as  in  a  family  when  the  heir  uses 
to  go  a  hunting;  he  never  considers  how  his  meal  is  dressed, 
takes  a  bit,  and  away.  But  when  he  stays  within,  then  he 
grows  curious ;  he  does  not  like  this,  nor  he  does  not  like 
that ;  he  will  have  his  meat  dressed  his  own  way,  or  perad- 
venture  he  will  dress  it  himself. 

A  glorious  Church  is  like  a  magnificent  feast ;  there  is  all 
the  variety  that  may  be,  but  every  one  chooses  out  a  dish  or 
two  that  he  likes,  and  lets  the  rest  alone :  how  glorious  so- 
ever the  Church  is,  every  one  chooses  out  of  it  his  own  re- 
ligion, by  which  he  governs  himself  and  lets  the  rest  alone. 

The  laws  of  the  Church  are  most  favorable  to  the  Church, 
because  they  were  the  Church's  own  making:  as  the  heralds 


168  SELDEN'S 

are  the  best  gentlemen,  because  they  make  their  own  pedi- 
gree. 

The  way  of  coming  into  our  great  churches  was  anciently 
at  the  west  door,  that  men  might  see  the  altar  and  all  the 
church  before  them ;  the  other  doors  were  but  posterns. 

Competency. 

That  which  is  a  competency  for  one  man  is  not  enough  for 
another,  no  more  than  that  which  will  keep  one  man  warm 
will  keep  another  man  warm :  one  man  can  go  in  doublet 
and  hose,  when  another  man  cannot  be  without  a  cloak,  and 
yet  have  no  more  clothes  than  is  necessary  for  him. 

Great  Conjunction. 

The  greatest  conjunction  of  Saturn  and  Jupiter  happens 
but  once  in  eight  hundred  years,  and  therefore  astrologers 
can  make  no  experiments  of  it,  nor  foretell  what  it  means ; 
not  but  that  the  stars  may  mean  something;  but  we  cannot 
tell  what,  because  we  cannot  come  at  them.  Suppose  a 
planet  were  a  simple  or  a  herb,  how  could  a  physician  tell 
the  virtue  of  that  simple,  unless  he  could  come  at  it,  to  ap- 
ply it? 

Conscience. 

He  that  hath  a  scrupulous  conscience  is  like  a  horse  that  is 
not  well  weighed :  he  starts  at  every  bird  that  flies  out  of 
the  hedge. 

A  knowing  man  will  do  that  which  a  tender-conscienced 
man  dares  not  do,  by  reason  of  his  ignorance;  the  other 
knows  there  is  no  hurt ;  as  a  child  is  afraid  to  go  into  the 
dark  when  a  man  is  not,  because  he  knows  there  is  no 
danger. 

If  we  once  come  to  leave  that  outloose,  as  to  pretend  con- 
science against  law,  who  knows  what  inconvenience  may 
follow?  For  thus,  suppose  an  Anabaptist  comes  and  takes 
my  horse,  I  sue  him;  he  tells  me  he  did  according  to  his 
conscience ;  his  conscience  tells  him  all  things  are  common 
amongst  the  saints :  what  is  mine  is  his ;  therefore  you  do  ill 
to  make  such  a  law — « If  any  man  takes  another's  horse  he 


TABLE-TALK  169 

shall  be  hanged. »  What  can  I  say  to  this  man?  He  does 
according  to  his  conscience.  Why  is  not  he  as  honest  a  man 
as  he  that  pretends  a  ceremony  established  by  law  is  against 
his  conscience?  Generally  to  pretend  conscience  against 
law  is  dangerous ;  in  some  cases  haply  we  may. 

Some  men  make  it  a  case  of  conscience  whether  a  man 
may  have  a  pigeon-house  because  his  pigeons  eat  other 
folks'  corn.  But  there  is  no  such  thing  as  conscience  in  the 
business ;  the  matter  is,  whether  he  be  a  man  of  such  qual- 
ity, that  the  State  allows  him  to  have  a  dove-house ;  if  so, 
there's  an  end  of  the  business;  his  pigeons  have  a  right  to 
eat  where  they  please  themselves. 

Contracts. 

If  our  fathers  have  lost  their  liberty,  why  may  not  we  labor 
to  regain  it?  Answer:  We  must  look  to  the  contract;  if 
that  be  rightly  made,  we  must  stand  to  it ;  if  we  once  grant 
we  may  recede  from  contracts  upon  any  inconveniency  that 
may  afterwards  happen,  we  shall  have  no  bargain  kept.  If 
I  sell  you  a  horse  and  do  not  like  my  bargain,  I  will  have 
my  horse  again. 

Keep  your  contracts — so  far  a  divine  goes ;  but  how  to 
make  our  contracts  is  left  to  ourselves;  and  as  we  agree 
upon  the  conveying  of  this  house  or  that  land,  so  it  must  be. 
If  you  offer  me  a  hundred  pounds  for  my  glove,  I  tell  you 
what  my  glove  is,  a  plain  glove,  pretend  no  virtue  in  it,  the 
glove  is  my  own,  I  profess  not  to  sell  gloves,  and  we  agree 
for  a  hundred  pounds,  I  do  not  know  why  I  may  not  with  a 
safe  conscience  take  it.  The  want  of  that  common  obvious 
distinction  of  jus  prceceptivum  and  jus  permissivum  does 
much  trouble  men. 

Lady  Kent  articled  with  Sir  Edward  Herbert  that  he 
should  come  to  her  when  she  sent  for  him,  and  stay  with 
her  as  long  as  she  would  have  him,  to  which  he  set  his  hand; 
then  he  articled  with  her  that  he  should  go  away  when  he 
pleased,  and  stay  away  as  long  as  he  pleased,  to  which  she 
set  her  hand.  This  is  the  epitome  of  all  the  contracts  in 
the  world  betwixt  man  and  man,  betwixt  prince  and  sub- 
ject; they  keep  them  as  long  as  they  like  them,  and  no 
longer. 


iyo  SELDEN'S 


Damnation. 


If  the  physician  sees  you  eat  anything  that  is  not  good  for 
your  body,  to  keep  you  from  it  he  cries,  «'Tis  poison*;  if 
the  divine  sees  you  do  anything  that  is  hurtful  for  your  soul, 
to  keep  you  from  it  he  cries,  «  You  are  damned.* 

To  preach  long,  loud,  and  damnation,  is  the  way  to  be 
cried  up.  We  love  a  man  that  damns  us,  and  we  run  after 
him  again  to  save  us.  If  a  man  had  a  sore  leg,  and  he 
should  go  to  an  honest,  judicious  chirurgeon,  and  he  should 
only  bid  him  keep  it  warm  and  anoint  with  such  an  oil  (an 
oil  well  known)  that  would  do  the  cure,  haply  he  would  not 
much  regard  him,  because  he  knows  the  medicine  before- 
hand an  ordinary  medicine.  But  if  he  should  go  to  a  sur- 
geon that  should  tell  him,  « Your  leg  will  gangrene  within 
three  days,  and  it  must  be  cut  off,  and  you  will  die  unless 
you  do  something  that  I  could  tell  you,»  what  listening  there 
would  be  to  this  man!  «Oh,  for  the  Lord's  sake  tell  me 
what  this  is.     I  will  give  you  any  content  for  your  pains. » 

Devils. 

Casting  out  devils  is  mere  juggling;  they  never  cast  out 
any  but  what  they  first  cast  in.  They  do  it  where,  for  rev- 
erence, no  man  shall  dare  to  examine  it ;  they  do  it  in  a 
corner,  in  a  mortise-hole,  not  in  the  market-place.  They 
do  nothing  but  what  may  be  done  by  art ;  they  make  the 
devil  fly  out  of  the  window  in  the  likeness  of  a  bat  or  a  rat ; 
why  do  they  not  hold  him?  Why  in  the  likeness  of  a  bat, 
or  a  rat,  or  some  creature? — that  is,  why  not  in  some  shape 
we  paint  him  in,  with  claws  and  horns?  By  this  trick  they 
gain  much,  gain  upon  men's  fancies,  and  so  are  reverenced; 
and  certainly  if  the  priest  deliver  me  from  him  that  is  my 
most  deadly  enemy,  I  have  all  the  reason  in  the  world  to 
reverence  him.  Objection  :  But  if  this  be  juggling,  why  do 
they  punish  impostures?  Answer :  For  great  reason,  be* 
cause  they  do  not  play  their  part  well,  and  for  fear  others 
should  discover  them ;  and  so  all  of  them  ought  to  be  of  the 
same  trade. 

A  person  of  quality  came  to  my  chamber  in  the  Temple, 
and  told  me  he  had  two  devils  in  his  head  (I  wondered  what 


TABLE-TALK  171 

he  meant),  and  just  at  that  time  one  of  them  bade  him  kill 
me :  with  that  I  began  to  be  afraid,  and  thought  he  was 
mad.  He  said  he  knew  I  could  cure  him,  and  therefore  en- 
treated me  to  give  him  something,  for  he  was  resolved  he 
would  go  to  nobody  else.  I  perceiving  what  an  opinion  he 
had  of  me,  and  that  'twas  only  melancholy  that  troubled 
him,  took  him  in  hand,  and  warranted  him,  if  he  would 
follow  my  directions,  to  cure  him  in  a  short  time.  I  desired 
him  to  let  me  be  alone  about  an  hour,  and  then  to  come 
again,  which  he  was  very  willing  to  do.  In  the  meantime  I 
got  a  card,  and  wrapped  it  up  handsome  in  a  piece  of  taf- 
feta, and  put  strings  to  the  taffeta,  and  when  he  came,  gave 
it  him  to  hang  about  his  neck,  and  withal  charged  him  that 
he  should  not  disorder  himself  neither  with  eating  nor  drink- 
ing, but  eat  very  little  of  supper,  and  say  his  prayers  duly 
when  he  went  to  bed,  and  I  made  no  question  but  he  would 
be  well  in  three  or  four  days.  Within  that  time  I  went  to 
dinner  to  his  house  and  asked  him  how  he  did.  He  said  he 
was  much  better,  but  not  perfectly  well,  or,  in  truth,  he  had 
not  dealt  clearly  with  me.  He  had  four  devils  in  his  head, 
and  he  perceived  two  of  them  were  gone  with  that  which  I 
had  given  him,  but  the  other  two  troubled  him  still.  «  Well,» 
said  I,  « I  am  glad  two  of  them  are  gone ;  I  make  no  doubt 
but  to  get  away  the  other  two  likewise.))  So  I  gave  him 
another  thing  to  hang  about  his  neck.  Three  days  after  he 
came  to  me  to  my  chamber  and  professed  he  was  now  as 
well  as  ever  he  was  in  his  life,  and  did  extremely  thank  me 
for  the  great  care  I  had  taken  of  him.  I,  fearing  lest  he 
might  relapse  into  the  like  distemper,  told  him  that  there 
was  none  but  myself  and  one  physician  more  in  the  whole 
town  that  could  cure  devils  in  the  head,  and  that  was  Dr. 
Harvey  (whom  I  had  prepared),  and  wished  him,  if  ever  he 
found  himself  ill  in  my  absence,  to  go  to  him,  for  he  could 
cure  his  disease  as  well  as  myself.  The  gentleman  lived 
many  years,  and  was  never  troubled  after. 

Self-Denial. 

'Tis  much  the  doctrine  of  the  times  that  men  should  not 
please  themselves,  but  deny  themselves  everything  they 
take  delight  in — not  look  upon  beauty,  wear  no  good  clothes, 


172  SELDEN'S 

eat  no  good  meat,  etc. ;  which  seems  the  greatest  accusation 
that  can  be  upon  the  Maker  of  all  good  things.  If  they  be 
not  to  be  used,  why  did  God  make  them?  The  truth  is,  they 
that  preach  against  them  cannot  make  use  of  them  them- 
selves, and  then,  again,  they  get  esteem  by  seeming  to  con- 
demn them.  But  mark  it  while  you  live,  if  they  do  not 
please  themselves  as  much  as  they  can ;  and  we  live  more 
by  example  than  precept. 

Epitaph. 

An  epitaph  must  be  made  fit  for  the  person  for  whom  it  is 
made.  For  a  man  to  say  all  the  excellent  things  that  can 
be  said  upon  one,  and  call  that  his  epitaph,  is  as  if  a  painter 
should  make  the  handsomest  piece  he  can  possibly  make, 
and  say  'twas  my  picture.     It  holds  in  a  funeral  sermon. 

Equity. 

Equity  in  law  is  the  same  that  the  spirit  is  in  religion — what 
every  one  pleases  to  make  it.  Sometimes  they  go  accord- 
ing to  conscience,  sometimes  according  to  law,  sometimes 
according  to  the  rule  of  court. 

Equity  is  a  roguish  thing;  for  law  we  have  a  measure, 
know  what  to  trust  to ;  equity  is  according  to  the  conscience 
of  him  that  is  Chancellor,  and  as  that  is  larger  or  narrower, 
so  is  equity.  'Tis  all  one  as  if  they  should  make  the  stand- 
ard for  the  measure  we  call  a  foot,  a  Chancellor's  foot;  what 
an  uncertain  measure  would  this  be!  One  Chancellor  has 
a  long  foot,  another  a  short  foot,  a  third  an  indifferent  foot : 
'tis  the  same  thing  in  the  Chancellor's  conscience. 

That  saying,  «  Do  as  you  would  be  done  to,»  is  often  mis- 
understood, for  'tis  not  thus  meant  that  I,  a  private  man, 
should  do  to  you,  a  private  man,  as  I  would  have  you  do  to 
me,  but  do  as  we  have  agreed  to  do  one  to  another  by  pub- 
lic agreement.  If  the  prisoner  should  ask  the  judge  whether 
he  would  be  content  to  be  hanged  were  he  in  his  case,  he 
would  answer,  «No.»  Then  says  the  prisoner,  «Do  as  you 
would  be  done  to.»  Neither  of  them  must  do  as  private 
men,  but  the  judge  must  do  by  him  as  they  have  publicly 
agreed :  that  is,  both  judge  and  prisoner  have  consented  to 
a  law  that  if  either  of  them  steal  they  shall  be  hanged. 


TABLE-TALK  173 

Evil-Speaking. 

He  that  speaks  ill  of  another,  commonly  before  he  is  aware, 
makes  himself  such  a  one  as  he  speaks  against :  for  if  he 
had  civility  or  breeding,  he  would  forbear  such  kind  of  lan- 
guage. 

A  gallant  man  is  above  ill  words ;  an  example  we  have  in 
the  old  Lord  of  Salisbury,  who  was  a  great  wise  man.  Stone 
had  called  some  lord  about  court,  «  Fool » :  the  lord  complains 
and  has  Stone  whipped;  Stone  cries,  «I  might  have  called 
my  Lord  of  Salisbury  4  fool '  often  enough  before  he  would 
have  had  me  whipped.)) 

Speak  not  ill  of  a  great  enemy,  but  rather  give  him  good 
words,  that  he  may  use  you  the  better  if  you  chance  to  fall 
into  his  hands.  The  Spaniard  did  this  when  he  was  dying. 
His  confessor  told  him  (to  work  him  to  repentance)  how  the 
devil  tormented  the  wicked  that  went  to  hell :  the  Spaniard, 
replying,  called  the  devil  «my  lord»:  « I  hope  my  lord  the 
devil  is  not  so  cruel. »  His  confessor  reproved  him.  ((Ex- 
cuse me,»  said  the  Don,  «for  calling  him  so;  I  know  not  into 
what  hands  I  may  fall,  and  if  I  happen  into  his  I  hope  he 
will  use  me  the  better  for  giving  him  good  words.» 

Friends. 

Old  friends  are  best.  King  James  used  to  call  for  his  old 
shoes ;  they  were  easiest  for  his  feet. 

Gentlemen. 

What  a  gentleman  is,  'tis  hard  with  us  to  define.  In  other 
countries  he  is  known  by  his  privileges;  in  Westminster 
Hall  he  is  one  that  is  reputed  one ;  in  the  Court  of  Honor, 
he  that  hath  arms.  The  king  cannot  make  a  gentleman  of 
blood.  What  have  you  said?  Nor  God  Almighty:  but  He 
can  make  a  gentleman  by  creation.  If  you  ask  which  is  the 
better  of  these  two,  civilly  the  gentleman  of  blood,  morally 
the  gentleman  by  creation  may  be  the  better;  for  the  other 
may  be  a  debauched  man,  this  a  person  of  worth. 

Gentlemen  have  ever  been  more  temperate  in  their  relig- 


174  SELDEN'S 

ion  than  the  common  people,  as  having  more  reason,  the 
others  running  in  a  hurry.  In  the  beginning  of  Christianity 
the  Fathers  wrote  contra  gentes  and  contra  gentiles ;  they 
were  all  one.  But  after  all  were  Christians,  the  better  sort 
of  people  still  retained  the  name  of  Gentiles  throughout  the 
four  provinces  of  the  Roman  empire  (as  gentil-homme  in 
French,  gentil-huomo  in  Italian,  gentil-hombre  in  Spanish, 
and  gentil-man  in  English),  and  they,  no  question,  being 
persons  of  quality,  kept  up  those  feasts  which  we  borrow 
from  the  Gentiles  (as  Christmas,  Candlemas,  May-day,  etc.), 
continuing  what  was  not  directly  against  Christianity,  which 
the  common  people  would  never  have  endured. 

Hall. 

The  hall  was  the  place  where  the  great  lord  used  to  eat 
(wherefore  else  were  the  halls  made  so  big?),  where  he  saw 
all  his  servants  and  tenants  about  him.  He  ate  not  in  pri- 
vate, except  in  time  of  sickness:  when  once  he  became  a 
thing  cooped  up  all  his  greatness  was  spoiled.  Nay,  the 
king  himself  used  to  eat  in  the  hall,  and  his  lords  sat  with 
him,  and  then  he  understood  men. 

Humility. 

Humility  is  a  virtue  all  preach,  none  practise,  and  yet 
everybody  is  content  to  hear.  The  master  thinks  it  good 
doctrine  for  his  servant,  the  laity  for  the  clergy,  and  the 
clergy  for  the  laity. 

There  is  humilitas  qu<Bdam  in  vitio.  If  a  man  does  not 
take  notice  of  that  excellency  and  perfection  that  is  in  him- 
self, how  can  he  be  thankful  to  God,  who  is  the  author  of 
all  excellency  and  perfection?  Nay,  if  a  man  hath  too  mean 
an  opinion  of  himself,  'twill  render  him  unserviceable  both 
to  God  and  man. 

Pride  may  be  allowed  to  this  or  that  degree,  else  a  man 
cannot  keep  up  his  dignity.  In  gluttony  there  must  be  eat- 
ing, in  drunkenness  there  must  be  drinking:  'tis  not  the 
eating,  nor  'tis  not  the  drinking  that  is  to  be  blamed,  but 
the  excess.     So  in  pride. 


TABLE-TALK  175 

Public  Interest. 

All  might  go  well  in  a  commonwealth  if  every  one  in  the 
parliament  would  lay  down  his  own  interest  and  aim  at  the 
general  good.  If  a  man  were  sick,  and  the  whole  college  of 
physicians  should  come  to  him  and  administer  severally, 
haply  so  long  as  they  observed  the  rules  of  art  he  might  re- 
cover :  but  if  one  of  them  had  a  great  deal  of  scammony  by 
him,  he  must  put  off  that;  therefore  he  prescribes  scam- 
mony. Another  had  a  great  deal  of  rhubarb,  and  he  must 
put  off  that,  and  therefore  he  prescribes  rhubarb,  &c. ,  they 
would  certainly  kill  the  man.  We  destroy  the  common- 
wealth, while  we  preserve  our  own  private  interests  and 
neglect  the  public. 

Human  Invention. 

You  say  there  must  be  no  human  invention  in  the  Church, 
nothing  but  the  pure  Word.  Answer  :  If  I  give  any  expo- 
sition but  what  is  expressed  in  the  text,  that  is  my  inven- 
tion ;  if  you  give  another  exposition,  that  is  your  invention, 
and  both  are  human.  For  example,  suppose  the  word  «  egg  » 
were  in  the  text;  I  say,  «'tis  meant  an  hen-egg,»  you  say, 
« a  goose-egg » ;  neither  of  these  are  expressed,  therefore 
they  are  human  inventions;  and  I  am  sure  the  newer  the 
invention  the  worse ;  old  inventions  are  best. 

If  we  must  admit  nothing  but  what  we  read  in  the  Bible, 
what  will  become  of  the  Parliament? — for  we  do  not  read  of 
that  there. 

Judge. 

We  see  the  pageants  in  Cheapside,  the  lions  and  the  ele- 
phants, but  we  do  not  see  the  men  that  carry  them :  we  see 
the  judges  look  big,  look  like  lions,  but  we  do  not  see  who 
moves  them. 

Little  things  do  great  works,  when  the  great  things  will 
not.  If  I  should  take  a  pin  from  the  ground,  a  little  pair 
of  tongs  will  do  it,  when  a  great  pair  will  not.  Go  to  a 
judge  to  do  a  business  for  you ;  by  no  means  he  will  not 
hear  of  it.  But  go  to  some  small  servant  about  him,  and 
he  will  despatch  it  according  to  your  heart's  desire. 


176  SELDEN'S 

There  could  be  no  mischief  in  the  commonwealth  without 
a  judge.  Though  there  be  false  dice  brought  in  at  the 
groom -porters,  and  cheating  offered,  yet  unless  he  allow  the 
cheating,  and  judge  the  dice  to  be  good,  there  may  be  hopes 
of  fair  play. 

King. 

A  king  is  a  thing  men  have  made  for  their  own  sakes,  for 
quietness'  sake ;  just  as  in  a  family  one  man  is  appointed  to 
buy  the  meat.  If  every  man  should  buy,  or  if  there  were 
many  buyers,  they  would  never  agree :  one  would  buy  what 
the  other  liked  not,  or  what  the  other  had  bought  before ; 
so  there  would  be  a  confusion.  But  that  charge  being  com- 
mitted to  one,  he  according  to  his  discretion  pleases  all ;  if 
they  have  not  what  they  would  have  one  day,  they  shall 
have  it  the  next,  or  something  as  good. 

Kings  are  all  individual,  this  or  that  king;  there  is  no 
species  of  kings. 

A  king  that  claims  privileges  in  his  own  country  because 
they  have  them  in  another  is  just  as  a  cook  that  claims  fees 
in  one  lord's  house  because  they  are  allowed  in  another.  If 
the  master  of  the  house  will  yield  them,  well  and  good. 

The  text  «  Render  unto  Caesar  the  things  that  are  Caesar's  » 
makes  as  much  against  kings  as  for  them,  for  it  says  plainly 
that  some  things  are  not  Caesar's. 

King  of  England. 

The  king  can  no  no  wrong;  that  is,  no  process  can  be 
granted  against  him.  What  must  be  done,  then;  petition 
him,  and  the  king  writes  upon  the  petition  soit  droit  fait, 
and  sends  it  to  the  Chancery,  and  then  the  business  is  heard. 
His  confessor  will  not  tell  him ;  he  can  do  no  wrong. 

The  three  estates  are  the  lords  temporal,  the  bishops  are 
the  clergy,  and  the  commons,  as  some  would  have  it.  Take 
heed  of  that,  for  then  if  two  agree,  the  third  is  involved; 
but  he  is  king  of  the  three  estates. 

The  court  of  England  is  much  altered.  At  a  solemn 
dancing,  first  you  had  the  grave  measures,  then  the  coran- 
toes  and  the  galliards,  and  this  is  kept  up  with  ceremony ; 


TABLE-TALK  177 

at  length  to  trenchmore  and  the  cushion-dance,  and  then 
all  the  company  dance — lord  and  groom,  lady  and  kitchen- 
maid,  no  distinction.  So  in  our  court,  in  Queen  Elizabeth's 
time,  gravity  and  state  were  kept  up.  In  King  James'  time 
things  were  pretty  well.  But  in  King  Charles'  time,  there 
has  been  nothing  but  trenchmore,  and  the  cushion-dance, 
omnium  gatherum  tolly-polly,  hoite  come  toite. 

'Tis  hard  to  make  an  accommodation  between  the  king 
and  the  Parliament.  If  you  and  I  fell  out  about  money, 
you  said  I  owed  3rou  twenty  pounds,  I  said  I  owed  you  but 
ten  pounds,  it  may  be  a  third  part)',  allowing  me  twenty 
marks,  might  make  us  friends.  But  if  I  said  I  owed  you 
twenty  pounds  in  silver,  and  you  said  I  owed  you  twenty 
pounds  of  diamonds,  which  is  a  sum  innumerable,  'tis  im- 
possible we  should  ever  agree.     This  is  the  case. 

The  king  using  the  House  of  Commons  as  he  did  Mr. 
Pym  and  his  company  (that  is,  charging  them  with  treason 
because  they  charged  my  Lord  of  Canterbury  and  Sir 
George  Ratcliffe),  it  was  just  with  as  much  logic  as  the  boy 
that  would  have  married  his  grandmother  used  to  his  father : 
«You  married  my  mother,  why  should  not  I  marry  yours? » 

Law. 

A  man  may  plead  «not  guilty,»  and  yet  tell  no  lie;  for  by 
the  law  no  man  is  bound  to  accuse  himself;  so  that  when  I 
say,  «Not  guilt)r,»  the  meaning  is  as  if  I  should  say  by  way 
of  paraphrase,  « I  am  not  so  guilty  as  to  tell  you ;  if  you  will 
bring  me  to  a  trial,  and  have  me  punished  for  this  you  lay 
to  my  charge,  prove  it  against  me.» 

Ignorance  of  the  law  excuses  no  man ;  not  that  all  men 
know  the  law,  but  because  'tis  an  excuse  every  man  will 
plead  and  no  man  can  tell  how  to  confute  him. 

The  King  of  Spain  was  outlawed  in  Westminster  Hall,  I 
being  of  council  against  him.  A  merchant  had  recovered 
costs  against  him  in  a  suit,  which  because  he  could  not  get 
we  advised  to  have  him  outlawed  for  not  appearing,  and  so 
he  was.  As  soon  as  Gondomar  heard  that,  he  presently 
sent  the  money,  by  reason  if  his  master  had  been  outlawed 
he  could  not  have  the  benefit  of  the  law,  which  would  have 


178  SELDEN'S 

been  very  prejudicial,  there  being  then  many  suits  depend- 
ing betwixt  the  King  of  Spain  and  our  English  merchants. 

Every  law  is  a  contract  between  the  king  and  the  people, 
and  therefore  to  be  kept.  A  hundred  men  may  owe  me  a 
hundred  pounds,  as  well  as  any  one  man ;  and  shall  they  not 
pay  me  because  they  are  stronger  than  I?  Objection:  Oh, 
but  they  lose  all  if  they  keep  that  law.  Answer  :  Let  them 
look  to  the  making  of  their  bargain.  If  I  sell  my  lands,  and 
when  I  have  done,  one  comes  and  tells  me  I  have  nothing 
else  to  keep  me,  I  and  my  wife  and  children  must  starve  if 
I  part  with  my  land ;  must  I  not  therefore  let  them  have  my 
land  that  have  bought  it  and  paid  for  it? 

The  Parliament  may  declare  law,  as  well  as  any  other  in- 
ferior court  may,  viz.,  the  King's  Bench.  In  that  or  this 
particular  case  the  King's  Bench  will  declare  unto  you  what 
the  law  is,  but  that  binds  nobody  but  whom  the  case  con- 
cerns :  so  the  highest  court,  the  Parliament,  may  do,  but  not 
declare  law — that  is,  make  law  that  was  never  heard  of 
before. 

Law  of  Nature. 

I  cannot  fancy  to  myself  what  the  law  of  nature  means,  but 
the  law  of  God.  How  should  I  know  I  ought  not  to  steal,  I 
ought  not  to  commit  adultery,  unless  somebody  had  told  me 
so!  Surely  'tis  because  I  have  been  told  so.  'Tis  not  be- 
cause I  think  I  ought  not  to  do  them,  nor  because  you  think 
I  ought  not ;  if  so,  our  minds  might  change :  whence,  then, 
comes  the  restraint?  From  a  higher  Power;  nothing  else 
can  bind.  I  cannot  bind  myself,  for  I  may  untie  myself 
again ;  nor  an  equal  cannot  bind  me,  for  we  may  untie  one 
another :  it  must  be  a  superior  Power,  even  God  Almighty. 
If  two  of  us  make  a  bargain,  why  should  either  of  us  stand 
to  it?  What  need  you  care  what  you  say,  or  what  need  I 
care  what  I  say?  Certainly  because  there  is  something  about 
me  that  tells  me  fides  est  servanda  ;  and  if  we  after  alter  our 
minds  and  make  a  new  bargain,  there  is  fides  servanda  there, 
too. 


TABLE-TALK  179 

Learning. 

No  man  is  the  wiser  for  his  learning;  it  may  administer 
matter  to  work  in,  or  objects  to  work  upon,  but  wit  and 
wisdom  are  born  with  a  man. 

'Tis  observable  that  in  Athens,  where  the  arts  flourished, 
they  were  governed  by  a  democracy ;  learning  made  them 
think  themselves  as  wise  as  anybody,  and  they  would  govern 
as  well  as  others ;  and  they  spake,  as  it  were  by  way  of  con- 
tempt, that  in  the  East  and  in  the  North  they  had  kings, 
and  why?  Because  the  most  part  of  them  followed  their 
business,  and  if  some  one  man  had  made  himself  wiser  than 
the  rest,  he  governed  them,  and  they  willingly  submitted 
themselves  to  him.  Aristotle  makes  the  observation.  And 
as  in  Athens  the  philosophers  made  the  people  knowing, 
and  therefore  they  thought  themselves  wise  enough  to  gov- 
ern, so  does  preaching  with  us,  and  that  makes  us  affect  a 
democracy ;  for  upon  these  two  grounds  we  all  would  be 
governors — either  because  we  think  ourselves  as  wise  as  the 
best,  or  because  we  think  ourselves  the  elect  and  have  the 
Spirit,  and  the  rest  a  company  of  reprobates  that  belong  to 
the  devil. 

Marriage. 

Of  all  actions  of  a  man's  life  his  marriage  does  least  concern 
other  people,  yet  of  all  actions  of  our  life  'tis  most  meddled 
with  by  other  people. 

Marriage  is  nothing  but  a  civil  contract.  'Tis  true,  'tis 
an  ordinance  of  God :  so  is  every  other  contract ;  God  com- 
mands me  to  keep  it  when  I  have  made  it. 

Marriage  is  a  desperate  thing.  The  frogs  in  ^Esop  were 
extremely  wise ;  they  had  a  great  mind  to  some  water,  but 
they  would  not  leap  into  the  well  because  they  could  not 
get  out  again. 

We  single  out  particulars,  and  apply  God's  providence  to 
them.  Thus  when  two  are  married  and  have  undone  one 
another,  they  cry,  « It  was  God's  providence  we  should  come 
together,*  when  God's  providence  does  equally  concur  to 
everything. 


i8o  SELDEN'S 

Measure  of  Things. 

We  measure  from  ourselves ;  and  as  things  are  for  our  use 
and  purpose,  so  we  approve  them.  Bring-  a  pear  to  the 
table  that  is  rotten,  we  cry  it  down,  « 'Tis  naught »;  but 
bring  a  medlar  that  is  rotten,  and  «  'Tis  a  fine  thing  »  ;  and 
37et  I'll  warrant  you  the  pear  thinks  as  well  of  itself  as  the 
medlar  does. 

We  measure  the  excellency  of  other  men  by  some  excel- 
lency we  conceive  to  be  in  ourselves.  Nash,  a  poet,  poor 
enough  (as  poets  used  to  be),  seeing  an  alderman  with  his 
gold  chain,  upon  his  great  horse,  by  way  of  scorn  said  to 
one  of  his  companions,  «  Do  you  see  yon  fellow,  how  goodly, 
how  big  he  looks?  Why,  that  fellow  cannot  make  a  blank 
verse ! » 

Nay,  we  measure  the  goodness  of  God  from  ourselves ;  we 
measure  His  goodness,  His  justice,  His  wisdom^  by  some- 
thing we  call  just,  good,  or  wise  in  oirrselves;  and  in  so 
doing  we  judge  proportionably  to  the  country-fellow  in  the 
play,  who  said  if  he  were  a  king  he  would  live  like  a  lord, 
and  have  peas  and  bacon  every  day,  and  a  whip  that  cried, 
«  Slash ! » 

Difference  of  Men. 

The  difference  of  men  is  very  great  (you  would  scarce  think 
them  to  be  of  the  same  species),  and  yet  it  consists  more  in 
the  affection  than  in  the  intellect.  For  as  in  the  strength  of 
body  two  men  shall  be  of  an  equal  strength,  yet  one  shall 
appear  stronger  than  the  other,  because  he  exercises  and 
puts  out  his  strength ;  the  other  will  not  stir  nor  strain  him- 
self. So  'tis  in  the  strength  of  the  brain:  the  one  endeav- 
ors, and  strains,  and  labors,  and  studies ;  the  other  sits  still, 
and  is  idle,  and  takes  no  pains,  and  therefore  he  appears  so 
much  the  inferior. 

Money. 

Money  makes  a  man  laugh.  A  blind  fiddler  playing  to  a 
company,  and  playing  but  scurvily,  the  company  laughed  at 
him ;  his  boy  that  led  him,  perceiving  it,  cried,  «  Father,  let 
us  be  gone;  they  do  nothing  but  laugh  at  you.»     «  Hold  thy 


TABLE-TALK  181 

peace,  boy,»  said  the  fiddler;  «\ve  shall  have  their  money 
presently,  and  then  we  will  laugh  at  them.» 

Euclid  was  beaten  in  Boccaline  for  teaching  his  scholars  a 
mathematical  figure  in  his  school,  whereby  he  showed  that 
all  the  lives  both  of  princes  and  private  men  tended  to  one 
centre,  con  gentilezza,  handsomely  to  get  money  out  of  other 
men's  pockets,  and  put  it  into  their  own. 

Moral  Honesty. 

They  that  cry  down  moral  honesty,  cry  down  that  which  is 
a  great  part  of  religion,  my  duty  towards  God  and  my  duty 
towards  man.  What  care  I  to  see  a  man  run  after  a  sermon, 
if  he  cozens  and  cheats  as  soon  as  he  comes  home?  On  the 
other  side,  morality  must  not  be  without  religion ;  for  if  so, 
it  may  change  as  I  see  convenience.  Religion  must  govern 
it.  He  that  has  not  religion  to  govern  his  morality,  is  not 
a  dram  better  than  my  mastiff  dog;  so  long  as  you  stroke 
him,  and  please  him,  and  do  not  pinch  him,  he  will  play 
with  you  as  finely  as  may  be — he  is  a  very  good  moral  mas- 
tiff ;  but  if  you  hurt  him,  he  will  fly  in  your  face,  and  tear 
out  your  throat. 

Mortgage. 

In  case  I  receive  a  thousand  pounds,  and  mortgage  as  much 
land  as  is  worth  two  thousand  to  you,  if  I  do  not  pay  the 
money  at  such  a  day,  I  fail.  Whether  you  may  take  my 
land  and  keep  it  in  point  of  conscience?  Answer:  If  you 
had  my  land  as  security  only  for  your  money,  then  you  are 
not  to  keep  it ;  but  if  we  bargained  so,  that  if  I  did  not  re- 
pay your  ;£i,ooo  my  land  should  go  for  it,  be  it  what  it  will, 
no  doubt  you  may  with  a  safe  conscience  keep  it ;  for  in 
these  things  all  the  obligation  is  servare  fidem. 

Number. 

All  those  mysterious  things  they  observe  in  numbers,  come 
to  nothing  upon  this  very  ground,  because  number  in  itself 
is  nothing,  has  nothing  to  do  with  nature,  but  is  merely  of 
human  imposition,  a  mere  sound.  For  example,  when  I  cry 
one  o'clock,  two  o'clock,  three  o'clock,  that  is  but  man's 


i8i  SELDEN'S 

division  of  time ;  the  time  itself  goes  on,  and  it  had  been  all 
one  in  nature,  if  those  hours  had  been  called  nine,  ten,  and 
eleven.  So  when  they  say  the  seventh  son  is  fortunate,  it 
means  nothing;  for  if  you  count  from  the  seventh  back- 
ward, then  the  first  is  the  seventh ;  why  is  not  he  likewise 
fortunate? 

Opinion. 

Opinion  and  affection  extremely  differ.  I  may  affect  a 
woman  best,  but  it  does  not  follow  I  must  think  her  the 
handsomest  woman  in  the  world.  I  love  apples  best  of  any 
fruit,  but  it  does  not  follow  I  must  think  apples  to  be  the 
best  fruit.  Opinion  is  something  wherein  I  go  about  to  give 
reason  why  all  the  world  should  think  as  I  think.  Affection 
is  a  thing  wherein  I  look  after  the  pleasing  of  myself. 

'Twas  a  good  fancy  of  an  old  Platonic:  the  gods  which 
are  above  men  had  something  whereof  man  did  partake,  an 
intellect,  knowledge,  and  the  gods  kept  on  their  course 
quietly.  The  beasts,  which  are  below  man,  had  something 
whereof  man  did  partake,  sense  and  growth,  and  the  beasts 
lived  quietly  in  their  way.  But  man  had  something  in  him 
whereof  neither  gods  nor  beasts  did  partake,  which  gave  him 
all  the  trouble,  and  made  all  the  confusion  in  the  world; 
and  that  is  opinion. 

Patience. 

Patience  is  the  chiefest  fruit  of  study.  A  man  that  strives 
to  make  himself  a  different  thing  from  other  men  by  much 
reading,  gains  this  chiefest  good,  that  in  all  fortunes  he  hath 
something  to  entertain  and  comfort  himself  withal. 

Peace. 

King  James  was  pictured  going  easily  down  a  pair  of  stairs, 
and  upon  every  step  there  was  written,  « Peace,  Peace, 
Peace.»  The  wisest  way  for  men  in  these  times  is  to  say 
nothing. 

When  a  country  wench  cannot  get  her  butter  to  come,  she 
says  the  witch  is  in  her  churn.  We  have  been  churning  for 
peace  a  great  while,  and  'twill  not  come;  sure  the  witch  is 
in  it! 


TABLE-TALK  185 

Though  we  had  peace,  yet  'twill  be  a  great  while  ere 
things  be  settled.  Though  the  wind  lie,  yet  after  a  storm 
the  sea  will  work  a  great  while. 

People. 

There  is  not  anything  in  the  world  more  abused  than  this 
sentence,  Salus  populi  suprema  lex  esto,  for  we  apply  it  as  if 
we  ought  to  forsake  the  known  law,  when  it  may  be  most 
for  the  advantage  of  the  people,  when  it  means  no  such 
thing.  For  first,  'tis  not  Salus  populi  suprema  lex  est,  but 
esto  ;  it  being  one  of  the  laws  of  the  twelve  tables ;  and  after 
divers  laws  made,  some  for  punishment,  some  for  reward, 
then  follows  this,  Salus  populi  suprema  lex  esto  :  that  is,  in 
all  the  laws  you  make,  have  a  special  eye  to  the  good  of  the 
people ;  and  then  what  does  this  concern  the  way  they  now 
go? 

Objection :  He  that  makes  one  is  greater  than  he  that  is 
made ;  the  people  make  the  king,  ergo,  &c. 

Answer:  This  does  not  hold;  for  if  I  have  ^1,000  per 
annum,  and  give  it  you,  and  leave  myself  ne'er  a  penny,  I 
made  you,  but  when  you  have  my  land  you  are  greater  than 
I.  The  parish  makes  the  constable,  and  when  the  constable 
is  made,  he  governs  the  parish.  The  answer  to  all  these 
doubts  is,  Have  you  agreed  so?  if  you  have,  then  it  must 
remain  till  you  have  altered  it. 

Pleasure. 

Pleasure  is  nothing  else  but  the  intermission  of  pain,  the 
enjoying  of  something  I  am  in  great  trouble  for  till  I  have 
it. 

'Tis  a  wrong  way  to  proportion  other  men's  pleasures  to 
ourselves;  'tis  like  a  child's  using  a  little  bird:  «Opoor 
bird,  thou  shalt  sleep  with  me  » ;  so  lays  it  in  his  bosom,  and 
stifles  it  with  his  hot  breath:  the  bird  had  rather  be  in  the 
cold  air.  And  yet  too  'tis  the  most  pleasing  flattery,  to  like 
what  other  men  like. 

'Tis  most  undoubtedly  true,  that  all  men  are  equally  given 
to  their  pleasure;  only  thus,  one  man's  pleasure  lies  one 
way,  and  another's  another.     Pleasures  are  all  alike  simply 


184  SELDEN'S 

considered  in  themselves :  he  that  hunts,  or  he  that  governs 
the  commonwealth,  they  both  please  themselves  alike,  only 
we  commend  that  whereby  we  ourselves  receive  some  ben- 
efit ;  as  if  a  man  place  his  delight  in  things  that  tend  to  the 
common  good.  He  that  takes  pleasure  to  hear  sermons  en- 
joys himself  as  much  as  he  that  hears  plays ;  and  could  he 
that  loves  plays  endeavor  to  love  sermons,  possibly  he  might 
bring  himself  to  it  as  well  as  to  any  other  pleasure.  At  first 
it  may  seem  harsh  and  tedious,  but  afterwards  'twould  be 
pleasing  and  delightful.  So  it  falls  out  in  that  which  is  the 
great  pleasure  of  some  men,  tobacco ;  at  first  they  could  not 
abide  it,  and  now  they  cannot  be  without  it. 

While  you  are  upon  earth,  enjoy  the  good  things  that  are 
here  (to  that  end  were  they  given),  and  be  not  melancholy, 
and  wish  yourself  in  heaven.  If  a  king  should  give  you  the 
keeping  of  a  castle,  with  all  things  belonging  to  it,  orchards, 
gardens,  etc.,  and  bid  you  use  them;  withal  promise  you 
that,  after  twenty  years  to  remove  you  to  the  court,  and  to 
make  you  a  Privy  Councillor ;  if  you  should  neglect  your 
castle,  and  refuse  to  eat  of  those  fruits,  and  sit  down,  and 
whine,  and  wish  you  were  a  Privy  Councillor,  do  you  think 
the  king  would  be  pleased  with  you? 

Pleasures  of  meat,  drink,  clothes,  etc. ,  are  forbidden  those 
that  know  not  how  to  use  them ;  just  as  nurses  cry,  «  Pah ! » 
when  they  see  a  knife  in  a  child's  hand;  they  will  never  say 
anything  to  a  man. 

Philosophy. 

When  men  comfort  themselves  with  philosophy,  'tis  not 
because  they  have  got  two  or  three  sentences,  but  because 
they  have  digested  those  sentences  and  made  them  their 
own :  so  upon  the  matter,  philosophy  is  nothing  but  discre- 
tion. 

Poetry. 

There  is  no  reason  plays  should  be  in  verse,  either  in  blank 
or  rhyme;  only  the  poet  has  to  say  for  himself,  that  he 
makes  something  like  that,  which  somebody  made  before 
him.  The  old  poets  had  no  other  reason  but  this,  their 
verse  was  sung  to  music ;  otherwise  it  had  been  a  senseless 
thing  to  have  fettered  up  themselves. 


TABLE-TALK  185 

I  never  converted  but  two,  the  one  was  Mr.  Crashaw, 
from  writing  against  plays,  by  telling  him  a  way  how  to 
understand  that  place  of  putting  on  woman's  apparel,  which 
has  nothing  to  do  in  the  business,  as  neither  has  it,  that  the 
Fathers  speak  against  plays  in  their  time,  with  reason 
enough,  for  they  had  real  idolatries  mixed  with  their  plays, 
having  three  altars  perpetually  upon  the  stage.  The  other 
was  a  doctor  of  divinity,  from  preaching  against  painting; 
which  simply  in  itself  is  no  more  hurtful  than  putting  on 
my  clothes,  or  doing  anything  to  make  myself  like  other 
folks,  that  I  may  not  be  odioiis  nor  offensive  to  the  company. 
Indeed  if  I  do  it  with  an  ill  intention,  it  alters  the  case ;  so, 
if  I  put  on  my  gloves  with  an  intention  to  do  a  mischief,  I 
am  a  villain. 

'Tis  a  fine  thing  for  children  to  learn  to  make  verse;  but 
when  they  come  to  be  men,  they  must  speak  like  other  men, 
or  else  they  will  be  laughed  at.  'Tis  ridiculous  to  speak,  or 
write,  or  preach  in  verse.  As  'tis  good  to  learn  to  dance, 
a  man  may  learn  his  leg,  learn  to  go  handsomely;  but  'tis 
ridiculous  for  him  to  dance  when  he  should  go. 

'Tis  ridiculous  for  a  lord  to  print  verses;  'tis  well  enough 
to  make  them  to  please  himself,  but  to  make  them  public, 
is  foolish.  If  a  man  in  a  private  chamber  twirls  his  band- 
strings,  or  plays  with  a  rush,  to  please  himself,  'tis  well 
enough ;  but  if  he  should  go  into  Fleet  Street,  and  sit  upon 
a  stall  and  twirl  a  band-string  or  play  with  a  rush,  then  all 
the  boys  in  the  street  would  laugh  at  him. 

Verse  proves  nothing  but  the  quantity  of  syllables ;  they 
are  not  meant  fcr  logic. 

Power. 

There  is  no  stretching  of  power.  It  is  a  good  rule,  eat 
within  your  stomach,  act  within  your  commission. 

They  that  govern  most  make  least  noise.  You  see  when 
they  row  in  a  barge,  they  that  do  drudgery-work,  slash,  and 
puff,  and  sweat;  but  he  that  governs,  sits  quietly  at  the 
stern,  and  scarce  is  seen  to  stir. 

Syllables  govern  the  world. 

The  Parliament  of  England  has  no  arbitrary  power  in 
point  of  judicature,  but  in  point  of  making  law  only. 


186  SELDEN'S 

If  the  prince  be  servus  natura,  of  a  servile  base  spirit, 
and  the  subjects  liberi,  free  and  ingenuous,  ofttitnes  they 
depose  their  prince,  and  govern  themselves.  On  the  con- 
trary, if  the  people  be  servi  natura,  and  some  one  among 
them  of  a  free  and  ingenuous  spirit,  he  makes  himself  king 
of  the  rest;  and  this  is  the  cause  of  all  changes  in  state: 
commonwealths  into  monarchies,  and  monarchies  into  com- 
monwealths. 

In  a  troubled  state  we  must  do  as  in  foul  weather  upon 
the  Thames,  not  think  to  cut  directly  through,  so  the  boat 
may  be  quickly  full  of  water,  but  rise  and  fall  as  the  waves 
do,  give  as  much  as  conveniently  we  can. 

Preaching. 

The  tone  in  preaching  does  much  in  working  upon  the  peo- 
ple's affections.  If  a  man  should  make  love  in  an  ordinary 
tone,  his  mistress  would  not  regard  him ;  and  therefore  he 
must  whine.  If  a  man  should  cry  fire,  or  murder,  in  an 
ordinary  voice,  nobody  would  come  out  to  help  him. 

Preachers  will  bring  anything  into  the  text.  The  young 
Masters  of  Arts  preached  against  non-residency  in  the  uni- 
versity ;  whereupon  the  heads  made  an  order,  that  no  man 
should  meddle  with  anything  but  what  was  in  the  text. 
The  next  day  one  preached  upon  these  words,  ((Abraham 
begat  Isaac  » :  when  he  had  gone  a  good  way,  at  last  he  ob- 
served, that  Abraham  was  resident ;  for  if  he  had  been  non- 
resident, he  could  never  have  begot  Isaac ;  and  so  fell  foul 
upon  the  non-residents. 

I  could  never  tell  what  often  preaching  meant,  after  a 
church  is  settled,  and  we  know  what  is  to  be  done;  'tis  just 
as  if  a  husbandman  should  once  tell  his  servants  what  they 
are  to  do,  when  to  sow,  when  to  reap,  and  afterwards  one 
should  come  and  tell  them  twice  or  thrice  a  day  what  they 
know  already.  You  must  sow  your  wheat  in  October,  you 
must  reap  your  wheat  in  August,  &c. 

The  main  argument  why  they  would  have  two  sermons  a 
day,  is,  because  they  have  two  meals  a  day ;  the  soul  must 
be  fed  as  well  as  the  body.  But  I  may  as  well  argue,  I 
ought  to  have  two  noses  because  I  have  two  eyes,  or  two 


TABLE-TALK  187 

mouths  because  I  have  two  ears.  What  have  meals  and 
sermons  to  do  one  with  another? 

In  preaching  they  say  more  to  raise  men  to  love  virtue 
than  men  can  possibly  perform,  to  make  them  do  their  best ; 
as  if  you  would  teach  a  man  to  throw  the  bar,  to  make  him 
put  out  his  strength,  you  bid  him  throw  further  than  it  is 
possible  for  him,  or  any  man  else :  throw  over  yonder  house. 

In  preaching  they  do  by  men  as  writers  of  romances  do 
by  their  chief  knights,  bring  them  into  many  dangers,  but 
still  fetch  them  off ;  so  they  put  men  in  fear  of  hell,  but  at 
last  bring  them  to  heaven. 

Preachers  say,  do  as  I  say,  not  as  I  do.  But  if  a  physi- 
cian had  the  same  disease  upon  him  that  I  have,  and  he 
should  bid  me  do  one  thing,  and  he  do  quite  another,  could 
I  believe  him? 

Preaching  the  same  sermon  to  all  sorts  of  people,  is,  as  if 
a  schoolmaster  should  read  the  same  lesson  to  his  several 
forms:  if  he  reads,  Amo,  amas,  amavi,  the  highest  forms 
laugh  at  him ;  the  younger  boys  admire  him ;  so  it  is  in 
preaching  to  a  mixed  auditory.  Objection  :  But  it  cannot 
be  otherwise;  the  parish  cannot  be  divided  into  several 
forms:  what  must  the  preacher  then  do  in  discretion? 
Answer  :  Why  then  let  him  use  some  expressions  by  which 
this  or  that  condition  of  people  may  know  such  doctrine 
does  more  especially  concern  them ;  it  being  so  delivered 
that  the  wisest  may  be  content  to  hear.  For  if  he  delivers 
it  altogether,  and  leaves  it  to  them  to  single  out  what  be- 
longs to  themselves  (which  is  the  usual  way),  'tis  as  if  a  man 
would  bestow  gifts  upon  children  of  several  ages,  two  years 
old,  four  years  old,  ten  years  old,  &c. ,  and  there  he  brings 
tops,  pins,  points,  ribands,  and  casts  them  all  in  a  heap  to- 
gether upon  a  table  before  them ;  though  the  boy  of  ten 
years  old  knows  how  to  choose  his  top,  yet  the  child  of  two 
years  old,  that  should  have  a  riband,  takes  a  pin,  and  the 
pin  ere  he  be  aware  pricks  his  fingers,  and  then  all's  out  of 
order,  &c.  Preaching  for  the  most  part  is  the  glory  of  the 
preacher,  to  show  himself  a  fine  man.  Catechizing  would 
do  much  better. 

Use  the  best  arguments  to  persuade,  though  but  few  un- 
derstand ;   for  the  ignorant  will  sooner  believe  the  judicious 


188  SELDEN'S 

of  the  parish,  than  the  preacher  himself;  and  they  teach 
when  they  dissipate  what  he  has  said,  and  believe  it  the 
sooner,  confirmed  by  men  of  their  own  side.  For  betwixt 
the  laity  and  the  clergy  there  is,  as  it  were,  a  continual  driv- 
ing of  a  bargain ;  something  the  clergy  would  still  have  us 
be  at,  and  therefore  many  things  are  heard  from  the  preacher 
with  suspicion.  They  are  afraid  of  some  ends,  which  are 
easily  assented  to,  when  they  have  it  from  some  of  them- 
selves. 'Tis  with  a  sermon  as  'tis  with  a  play;  many  come 
to  see  it,  who  do  not  understand  it ;  and  yet  hearing  it  cried 
up  by  one  whose  judgment  they  cast  themselves  upon,  and 
of  power  with  them,  they  swear,  and  will  die  in  it,  that  'tis 
a  very  good  play,  which  they  would  not  have  done  if  the 
priest  himself  had  told  them  so.  As  in  a  great  school,  'tis 
[not]  the  master  that  teaches  all ;  the  monitor  does  a  great 
deal  of  work ;  it  may  be  the  boys  are  afraid  to  see  the  mas- 
ter: so  in  a  parish,  'tis  not  the  minister  does  all;  the  greater 
neighbor  teaches  the  lesser,  the  master  of  the  house  teaches 
his  servant,  &c. 

First  in  your  sermons  use  your  logic,  and  then  your  rhet- 
oric. Rhetoric  without  logic  is  like  a  tree  with  leaves  and 
blossoms,  but  no  root;  yet  I  confess  more  are  taken  with 
rhetoric  than  logic,  because  they  are  caught  with  a  free  ex- 
pression, when  they  understand  not  reason.  Logic  must  be 
natural,  or  it  is  worth  nothing  at  all ;  your  rhetoric  figures 
may  be  learned.  That  rhetoric  is  best  which  is  most  sea- 
sonable and  most  catching.  An  instance  we  have  in  that 
old  blunt  commander  at  Cadiz,  who  showed  himself  a  good 
orator;  being  to  say  something  to  his  soldiers,  which  he  was 
not  used  to  do,  he  made  them  a  speech  to  this  purpose: 
«  What  a  shame  will  it  be,  you  Englishmen,  that  feed  upon 
good  beef  and  brewess,  to  let  those  rascally  Spaniards  beat 
you  that  eat  nothing  but  oranges  and  lemons ; »  and  so  put 
more  courage  into  his  men  than  he  could  have  done  with  a 
more  learned  oration.  Rhetoric  is  very  good,  or  stark 
nought:  there's  no  medium  in  rhetoric.  If  I  am  not  fully 
persuaded,  I  laugh  at  the  orator. 

'Tis  good  to  preach  the  same  thing  again;  for  that's  the 
way  to  have  it  learned.  You  see  a  bird  by  often  whistling 
to  learn  a  tune,  and  a  month  after  record  it  to  herself. 


TABLE-TALK  189 

'Tis  a  hard  case  a  minister  should  be  turned  out  of  his 
living  for  something  they  inform  he  should  say  in  his  pulpit. 
We  can  no  more  know  what  a  minister  said  in  his  sermon 
by  two  or  three  words  picked  out  of  it,  than  we  can  tell  what 
tune  a  musician  played  last  upon  the  lute  by  two  or  three 
single  notes. 

Preferment. 

When  you  would  have  a  child  go  to  such  a  place,  and  you 
find  him  unwilling,  you  tell  him  he  shall  ride  a  cock-horse, 
and  then  he  will  go  presently;  so  do  those  that  govern  the 
State  deal  by  men,  to  work  them  to  their  ends;  they  tell 
them  they  shall  be  advanced  to  such  or  such  a  place,  and 
they  will  do  any  thing  they  would  have  them. 

A  great  place  strangely  qualifies.  John  Read,  groom  of 
the  chamber  to  my  Lord  of  Kent,  was  in  the  right.  Attor- 
ney Noy  being  dead,  some  were  saying,  how  would  the  king 
do  for  a  fit  man?  «  Why,  any  man,»  says  John  Read,  «may 
execute  the  place. »  «I  warrant,))  says  my  Lord,  «thou 
think'st  thou  understand 'st  enough  to  perform  it. »  «Yes,» 
quoth  John,  «let  the  king  make  me  attorney,  and  I  would 
fain  see  that  man  that  durst  tell  me  there's  anything  I  un- 
derstand not.» 

When  the  pageants  are  a-coming  there's  a  great  thrusting 
and  a  riding  upon  one  another's  backs  to  look  out  at  the 
window :  stay  a  little  and  they  will  come  just  to  you,  you 
may  see  them  quietly.  So  'tis  when  a  new  statesman  or 
officer  is  chosen;  there's  great  expectation  and  listening 
who  it  should  be ;  stay  a  while,  and  you  may  know  quietly. 

Missing  preferment  makes  the  presbyters  fall  foul  upon 
the  bishops :  men  that  are  in  hopes  and  in  the  way  of  rising, 
keep  in  the  channel,  but  they  that  have  none,  seek  new 
ways:  'tis  so  amongst  the  lawyers;  he  that  hath  the  judge's 
ear,  will  be  very  observant  of  the  way  of  the  court ;  but  he 
that  hath  no  regard  will  be  flying  out. 

My  Lord  Digby  having  spoken  something  in  the  House 
of  Commons  for  which  they  would  have  questioned  him, 
was  presently  called  to  the  Upper  House.  He  did  by  the 
Parliament  as  an  ape  when  he  has  done  some  waggery ;  his 
master  spies  him,  and  he  looks  for  his  whip,  but  before  he 
can  come  at  him,  whip  says  he  to  the  top  of  the  house. 


190  SELDEN'S 

Some  of  the  Parliament  were  discontented,  that  they 
wanted  places  at  court,  which  others  had  got ;  but  when  they 
had  them  once,  then  they  were  quiet.  Just  as  at  a  christen- 
ing, some  that  get  no  sugar-plums  when  the  rest  have,  mut- 
ter and  grumble ;  presently  the  wench  comes  again  with  her 
basket  of  sugar-plums,  and  then  they  catch  and  scramble, 
and  when  they  have  got  them,  you  hear  no  more  of  them. 

Prerogative. 

Prerogative  is  something  that  can  be  told  what  it  is,  not 
something  that  has  no  name :  just  as  you  see  the  archbishop 
has  his  prerogative  court,  but  we  know  what  is  done  in  that 
court.  So  the  king's  prerogative  is  not  his  will,  or,  what 
divines  make  it,  a  power,  to  do  what  he  lists. 

The  king's  prerogative,  that  is,  the  king's  law.  For  ex- 
ample, if  you  ask  whether  a  patron  may  present  to  a  living 
after  six  months  by  law?  I  answer,  No.  If  you  ask  whether 
the  king  may?  I  answer,  he  may  by  his  prerogative,  that 
is  by  the  law  that  concerns  him  in  that  case. 

Question. 

When  a  doubt  is  propounded,  you  must  learn  to  distinguish, 
and  show  wherein  a  thing  holds,  and  wherein  it  doth  not 
hold.  Ay,  or  no,  never  answered  any  question.  The  not 
distinguishing  where  things  should  be  distinguished,  and 
the  not  confounding  where  things  should  be  confounded,  is 
the  cause  of  all  the  mistakes  in  the  world. 

Reason. 

In  giving  reasons,  men  commonly  do  with  us  as  the  woman 
does  with  her  child ;  when  she  goes  to  market  about  her 
business  she  tells  it  she  goes  to  buy  it  a  fine  thing,  to  buy  it 
a  cake  or  some  plums.  They  give  us  such  reasons  as  they 
think  we  will  be  caught  withal,  but  never  let  us  know  the 
truth. 

When  the  school-men  talk  of  Recta  Ratio  in  morals,  either 
they  understand  reason  as  it  is  governed  by  a  command  from 
above,  or  else  they  say  no  more  than  a  woman   when  she 


TABLE-TALK  191 

says  a  thing  is  so  because  it  is  so ;  that  is,  her  reason  per- 
suades her  'tis  so.  The  other  acceptation  has  sense  in  it. 
As,  take  a  law  of  the  land,  I  must  not  depopulate,  my  rea- 
son tells  me  so.  Why?  Because  if  I  do,  I  incur  the  detri- 
ment. 

The  reason  of  a  thing  is  not  to  be  inquired  after  till  you 
are  sure  the  thing  itself  be  so.  We  commonly  are  at 
«  What's  the  reason  of  it?»  before  we  are  sure  of  the  thing. 
'Twas  an  excellent  question  of  my  Lady  Cotton,  when^Sir 
Robert  Cotton  was  magnifying  of  a  shoe,  which  was  Moses's 
or  Noah's,  and  wondering  at  the  strange  shape  and  fashion 
of  it.  «But,  Mr.  Cotton,»  says  she,  «are  you  sure  it  is  a 
shoe?» 

Retaliation. 

An  eye  for  an  eye  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth.  That  does  not 
mean  that  if  I  put  out  another  man's  eye,  therefore  I  must 
lose  one  of  my  own,  for  what  is  he  the  better  for  that? 
though  this  be  commonly  received.  But  it  means  I  shall 
give  him  what  satisfaction  an  eye  shall  be  judged  to  be 
worth. 

Reverence. 

'Tis  sometimes  unreasonable  to  look  after  respect  and  rev- 
erence, either  from  a  man's  own  servant,  or  other  inferiors. 
A  great  lord  and  a  gentleman  talking  together,  there  came 
a  boy  by,  leading  a  calf  with  both  his  hands.  Says  the  lord 
to  the  gentleman,  « You  shall  see  me  make  the  boy  let  go 
his  calf.»  With  that  he  came  towards  him,  thinking  the  boy 
would  have  put  off  his  hat,  but  the  boy  took  no  notice  of 
him.  The  lord  seeing  that,  «Sirrah,»  says  he,  «do  you  not 
know  me  that  you  use  no  reverence?))  «  Yes,»  says  the  boy, 
«if  your  lordship  will  hold  my  calf,  I  will  put  off  my  hat.w 

Non-Residency. 

The  people  thought  they  had  a  great  victory  over  the  clergy 
when,  in  Henry  VIII. 's  time,  they  got  their  bill  passed  that 
a  clergyman  should  have  but  two  livings;  before,  a  man 
might  have  twenty  or  thirty;  'twas  but  getting  a  dispensa- 
tion from  the  Pope's  Limiter,  or  gatherer  of  the  Peter-pence, 


192  SELDEN'S 

which  was  as  easily  got  as  now  you  may  have  a  license  to 
eat  flesh. 

As  soon  as  a  minister  is  made  he  hath  power  to  preach  all 
over  the  world,  but  the  civil  power  restrains  him ;  he  cannot 
preach  in  this  parish,  or  in  that ;  there  is  one  already  ap- 
pointed. Now,  if  the  State  allows  him  two  livings,  then  he 
hath  two  places  where  he  may  exercise  his  function,  and  so 
has  the  more  power  to  do  his  office,  which  he  might  do 
everywhere  if  he  were  not  restrained. 

Religion. 

King  James  said  to  the  fly,  «  Have  I  three  kingdoms,  and 
thou  must  needs  fly  into  my  eye?»  Is  there  not  enough  to 
meddle  with  upon  the  stage,  or  in  love,  or  at  the  table,  but 
religion? 

Religion  amongst  men  appears  to  me  like  the  learning 
they  got  at  school.  Some  men  forget  all  they  learned, 
others  spend  upon  the  stock,  and  some  improve  it.  So  some 
men  forget  all  the  religion  that  was  taught  them  when  they 
were  young,  others  spend  upon  that  stock,  and  some  im- 
prove it. 

Religion  is  like  the  fashion :  one  man  wears  his  doublet 
slashed,  another  laced,  another  plain ;  but  every  man  has  a 
doublet.  So  every  man  has  his  religion.  We  differ  about 
trimming. 

Men  say  they  are  of  the  same  religion  for  quietness'  sake ; 
but  if  the  matter  were  well  examined  you  would  scarce  find 
three  anywhere  of  the  same  religion  in  all  points. 

Every  religion  is  a  getting  religion ;  for  though  I  myself 
get  nothing,  I  am  subordinate  to  those  that  do.  So  you 
may  find  a  lawyer  in  the  Temple  that  gets  little  for  the 
present ;  but  he  is  fitting  himself  to  be  in  time  one  of  those 
great  ones  that  do  get. 

State. 

In  a  troubled  State  save  as  much  for  your  own  as  you  can. 
A  dog  had  been  at  market  to  buy  a  shoulder  of  mutton ; 
coming  home  he  met  two  dogs  by  the  way,  that  quarrelled 
with  him ;   he  laid  down  his  shoulder  of  mutton,  and  fell  to 


TABLE-TALK  193 

fighting-  with  one  of  them ;  in  the  meantime  the  other  dog 
fell  to  eating  his  mutton;  he  seeing  that,  left  the  dog  he 
was  fighting  with,  and  fell  upon  him  that  was  eating ;  then 
the  other  dog  fell  to  eat :  when  he  perceived  there  was  no 
remedy,  but  which  of  them  soever  he  fought  withal,  his 
mutton  was  in  danger,  he  thought  he  would  have  as  much 
of  it  as  he  could,  and  thereupon  gave  over  fighting,  and  fell 
to  eating  himself. 

Thanksgiving. 

At  first  we  gave  thanks  for  every  victory  as  soon  as  ever 
'twas  obtained;  but  since  we  have  had  many  now  we  can 
stay  a  good  while.  We  are  just  like  a  child :  give  him  a 
plum,  he  makes  his  leg;  give  him  a  second  plum,  he  makes 
another  leg;  at  last  when  his  belly  is  full,  he  forgets  what 
he  ought  to  do;  then  his  nurse,  or  somebody  else  that  stands 
by  him,  puts  him  in  mind  of  his  duty,  ((Where's  your  leg?» 

Trade. 

There  is  no  prince  in  Christendom  but  is  directly  a  trades- 
man, though  in  another  way  than  an  ordinary  tradesman. 
For  the  purpose  I  have  a  man ;  I  bid  him  lay  out  twenty 
shillings  in  such  commodities ;  but  I  tell  him  for  every  shill- 
ing he  lays  out  I  will  have  a  penny.  I  trade  as  well  as  he. 
This  every  prince  does  in  his  customs. 

Trial. 

Trials  are  by  one  of  these  three  ways.  By  confession  or 
by  demurrer ;  that  is,  confessing  the  fact,  but  denying  it  to 
be  that  wherewith  a  man  is  charged ;  for  example,  denying 
it  to  be  treason  if  a  man  be  charged  with  treason,  or  by  a 
jury. 

Ordalium  was  a  trial;  and  was  either  by  going  over  nine 
red-hot  ploughshares  (as  in  the  case  of  Queen  Emma,  ac- 
cused for  lying  with  the  Bishop  of  Winchester,  over  which 
she  being  led  blindfold,  and  having  passed  all  her  irons, 
asked  when  she  should  come  to  her  trial) ,  or  it  was  by  tak- 
ing a  red-hot  coulter  in  a  man's  hand,  and  carrying  it  so 
many  steps,  and  then  casting  it  from  him.  As  soon  as  this 
13 


194  SELDEN'S 

was  done,  the  hands  or  the  feet  were  to  be  bound  up,  and 
certain  charms  to  be  said,  and  a  day  or  two  after  to  be 
opened;  if  the  parts  were  whole,  the  party  was  judged  to  be 
innocent ;  and  so  on  the  contrary. 

The  rack  is  used  nowhere  as  in  England.  In  other  coun- 
tries it  is  used  in  judicature,  when  there  is  a  semiplena  pro- 
batio,  a  half -proof  against  a  man ;  then  to  see  if  they  can 
make  it  full,  they  rack  him  if  he  will  not  confess.  But 
here  in  England  they  take  a  man  and  rack  him,  I  do  not 
know  why,  nor  when ;  not  in  time  of  judicature,  but  when 
somebody  bids. 

Some  men  before  they  come  to  their  trial  are  cozened  to 
confess  upon  examination.  Upon  this  trick  they  are  made 
to  believe  somebody  has  confessed  before  them ;  and  then 
they  think  it  a  piece  of  honor  to  be  clear  and  ingenuous,  and 
that  destroys  them. 

War. 

Do  not  undervalue  an  enemy  by  whom  you  have  been 
worsted.  When  our  countrymen  came  home  from  fighting 
with  the  Saracens,  and  were  beaten  by  them,  they  pictured 
them  with  huge,  big,  terrible  faces  (as  you  still  see  the  sign 
of  the  ((Saracen's  Head»  is),  when  in  truth  they  were  like 
other  men.     But  this  they  did  to  save  their  own  credits. 

Question :  Whether  may  subjects  take  up  arms  against 
their  prince?  Answer  :  Conceive  it  thus:  Here  lies  a  shill- 
ing betwixt  you  and  me ;  ten  pence  of  the  shilling  is  yours, 
two  pence  is  mine ;  by  agreement,  I  am  as  much  king  of  my 
two  pence  as  you  of  your  ten  pence.  If  you  therefore  go 
about  to  take  away  my  two  pence  I  will  defend  it,  for  there 
you  and  I  are  equal,  both  princes. 

Or  thus,  two  supreme  powers  meet :  one  says  to  the  other, 
give  me  your  land ;  if  you  will  not,  I  will  take  it  from  you. 
The  other,  because  he  thinks  himself  too  weak  to  resist  him, 
tells  him,  of  nine  parts,  I  will  give  you  three,  so  I  may 
quietly  enjoy  the  rest,  and  I  will  become  your  tributary. 
Afterwards  the  prince  comes  to  exact  six  parts,  and  leaves 
but  three;  the  contract  then  is  broken,  and  they  are  in 
parity  again. 

To  know  what  obedience  is  due  to  the  prince  you  must 


TABLE-TALK  195 

look  into  the  contract  betwixt  him  and  his  people ;  as  if  you 
would  know  what  rent  is  due  from  the  tenant  to  the  land- 
lord you  must  look  into  the  lease.  When  the  contract  is 
broken,  and  there  is  no  third  person  to  judge,  then  the  deci- 
sion is  by  arms.  And  this  is  the  case  between  the  prince 
and  the  subject. 

Question  :  What  law  is  there  to  take  up  arms  against  the 
prince  in  case  he  break  his  covenant?  Answer :  Though 
there  be  no  written  law  for  it,  yet  there  is  custom,  which  is 
the  best  law  of  the  kingdom;  for  in  England  they  have 
always  done  it.  There  is  nothing  expressed  between  the 
King  of  England  and  the  King  of  France  that  if  either  in- 
vades the  other's  territory  the  other  shall  take  up  arms 
against  him ;  and  yet  they  do  it  upon  such  an  occasion. 

'Tis  all  one  to  be  plundered  by  a  troop  of  horse,  or  to 
have  a  man's  goods  taken  from  him  by  an  order  from  the 
council  table.  To  him  that  dies  'tis  all  one  whether  it  be 
by  a  penny  halter  or  a  silk  garter;  yet  I  confess  the  silk 
garter  pleases  more ;  and  like  trouts,  we  love  to  be  tickled 
to  death. 

The  soldiers  say  they  fight  for  honor,  when  the  truth  is 
they  have  their  honor  in  their  pocket ;  and  they  mean  the 
same  thing  that  pretend  to  fight  for  religion.  Just  as  a 
parson  goes  to  law  with  his  parishioners ;  he  says,  for  the 
good  of  his  successors,  that  the  Church  may  not  lose  its 
right ;  when  the  meaning  is  to  get  th.3  tithes  into  his  own 
pocket. 

Wife. 

He  that  hath  a  handsome  wife  by  other  men  is  thought 
happy;  'tis  a  pleasure  to  look  upon  her,  and  be  in  her  com- 
pany ;  but  the  husband  is  cloyed  with  her.  We  are  never 
content  with  what  we  have. 

You  shall  see  a  monkey  sometime,  that  has  been  playing 
up  and  down  the  garden,  at  length  leap  up  to  the  top  of  the 
wall,  but  his  clog  hangs  a  great  way  below  on  this  side. 
The  bishop's  wife  is  like  that  monkey's  clog;  himself  is  got 
up  very  high,  takes  place  of  the  temporal  barons,  but  his 
wife  comes  a  great  way  behind. 

'Tis  reason  a  man  that  will  have  a  wife  should  be  at  the 


196  SELDEN'S   TABLE-TALK 

charge  of  her  trinkets,  and  pay  all  the  scores  she  sets  on 
him.  He  that  will  keep  a  monkey  'tis  fit  he  should  pay  for 
the  glasses  he  breaks. 

Wisdom. 

A  wise  man  should  never  resolve  upon  anything,  at  least 
never  let  the  world  know  his  resolution,  for  if  he  cannot 
arrive  at  that  he  is  ashamed. 

Never  tell  your  resolution  beforehand;  but  when  the  cast 
is  thrown  play  it  as  well  as  you  can  to  win  the  game  you  are 
at.  'Tis  but  folly  to  study  how  to  play  size-ace  when  you 
know  not  whether  you  shall  throw  it  or  no. 

Wise  men  say  nothing  in  dangerous  times.  The  lion,  you 
know,  called  the  sheep  to  ask  her  if  his  breath  smelt :  she 
said,  «  Ay  » ;'  he  bit  off  her  head  for  a  fool.  He  called  the 
wolf  and  asked  him :  he  said,  «  No  » ;  he  tore  him  in  pieces 
for  a  flatterer.  At  last  he  called  the  fox  and  asked  him : 
truly  he  had  got  a  cold  and  could  not  smell. 


HYDRIOTAPHIA 

(URN-BURIAL) 


BY 


SIR   THOMAS    BROWNE 


«97 


SIR  THOMAS   BROWNE 


The  "  Religio  Medici "  quickly  established  the  fame  of  Sir  Thomas 
Browne  as  a  writer  of  rare  power  and  beauty,  whose  philosophical  bent 
and  profound  learning  did  not  blunt  the  edge  of  his  unique  originality 
of  iancy  and  style.  Less  familiar,  but  not  less  great,  is  the  work  here 
presented.  The  writer  loved  to  pore  over  outlandish  subjects,  and 
when  his  facts  were  set  out  in  imposing  array  he  would  embroider 
them  with  rich  and  often  captivating  fantasies  that  transform  ordinar- 
ily unattractive  topics  into  themes  fascinating  and  instinct  with  lofty 
eloquence. 

This  characterizes  his  treatment  of  the  ancient  mode  of  urn-burial, 
which  has  seen  a  revival  in  our  time.  He  discourses  upon  an  un- 
earthed fragment  of  human  anatomy  or  the  ashes  in  an  ancient  urn 
with  the  scholarly  enthusiasm  of  a  man  of  science  and  an  archaeologist, 
until  the  sublimity  of  the  larger  questions  as  they  unfold  themselves 
lifts  his  thoughts  to  the  high  plane  of  poetry.  Again  his  grave  whim- 
sicality delights  the  reader  at  unexpected  turns  with  the  effect  of  true 
humor.  There  is  a  mass  of  information  in  this  little  work,  "Hydrio- 
taphia,"  overlaid  with  an  eloquence  natural,  elevating,  and  unsur- 
passed in  literature. 

Browne  was  born  in  London  in  1605,  but  settled  as  a  practising 
physician  in  the  old  city  of  Norwich.  His  curious  work  known  by  its 
English  name  as  an  exposure  of  Vulgar  Errors,  or  popular  supersti- 
tions from  ignorance,  is  excellent  recreative  reading.  The  "  Urn  Bur- 
ial" appeared  in  1658.  His  fondness  for  Latinized  words  gives  a  stiff- 
ness to  his  pages  in  contrast  with  the  free  roaming  of  his  imagination, 
but  it  cannot  dull  our  interest.  He  lived  an  honored  and  enviable  life, 
and  died  in  16S2. 


198 


TO   M? 
WORTHY  AND  HONORED  FRIEND 

THOMAS  LE  GROS, 

OF   CROSTWICK,    ESQUIRE 


When  the  funeral  pyre  was  out,  and  the  last  valediction 
over,  men  took  a  lasting  adieu  of  their  interred  friends,  lit- 
tle expecting  the  curiosity  of  future  ages  should  comment 
upon  their  ashes ;  and,  having  no  old  experience  of  the  dura- 
tion of  their  relics,  held  no  opinion  of  such  after-consider- 
ations. 

But  who  knows  the  fate  of  his  bones,  or  how  often  he  is 
to  be  buried?  Who  hath  the  oracle  of  his  ashes,  or  whether 
they  are  to  be  scattered?  The  relics  of  many  lie  like  the 
ruins  of  Pompeys,  in  all  parts  of  the  earth ;  and  when  they 
arrive  at  your  hands,  these  may  seem  to  have  wandered  far, 
who,  in  a  direct  and  meridian  travel,  have  but  few  miles  of 
known  earth  between  yourself  and  the  pole. 

That  the  bones  of  Theseus  should  be  seen  again  in  Athens 
was  not  beyond  conjecture  and  hopeful  expectation:  but 
that  these  should  arise  so  opportunely  to  serve  yourself  was 
an  hit  of  fate,  and  honor  beyond  prediction. 

We  cannot  but  wish  these  urns  might  have  the  effect  of 
theatrical  vessels  and  great  Hippodrome  urns  in  Rome,  to 
resound  the  acclamations  and  honor  due  unto  you.  But 
these  are  sad  and  sepulchral  pitchers,  which  have  no  joyful 
voices ;  silently  expressing  old  mortality,  the  ruins  of  for- 
gotten times,  and  can  only  speak  with  life,  how  long  in  this 
corruptible  frame  some  parts  may  be  uncorrupted ;  yet  able 
to  outlast  bones  long  unborn,  and  noblest  pile  among  us. 

We  present  not  these  as  any  strange  sight  or  spectacle 
unknown  to  your  eyes,  who  have  beheld  the  best  of  urns 

199 


200  BROWNE 

and  noblest  variety  of  ashes ;  who  are  yourself  no  slender 
master  of  antiquities,  and  can  daily  command  the  view  of 
so  many  imperial  faces;  which  raiseth  your  thoughts  unto 
old  things  and  consideration  of  times  before  you,  when  even 
living  men  were  antiquities;  when  the  living  might  exceed 
the  dead,  and  to  depart  this  world  could  not  be  properly 
said  to  go  unto  the  greater  number.  And  so  run  up  your 
thoughts  upon  the  Ancient  of  Days,  the  antiquary's  truest 
object,  unto  whom  the  eldest  parcels  are  young,  and  earth 
itself  an  infant,  and  without  Egyptian  account  makes  but 
small  noise  in  thousands. 

We  were  hinted  by  the  occasion,  not  catched  the  oppor- 
tunity to  write  of  old  things,  or  intrude  upon  the  antiquary. 
We  are  coldly  drawn  unto  discourses  of  antiquities,  who 
have  scarce  time  before  us  to  comprehend  new  things,  or 
make  out  learned  novelties.  But  seeing  they  arose,  as  they 
lay  almost  in  silence  among  us,  at  least  in  short  account 
suddenly  passed  over,  we  were  very  unwilling  they  should 
die  again,  and  be  buried  twice  among  us. 

Beside,  to  preserve  the  living,  and  make  the  dead  to  live, 
to  keep  men  out  of  their  urns,  and  discourse  of  human  frag- 
ments in  them,  is  not  impertinent  unto  our  profession; 
whose  study  is  life  and  death,  who  daily  behold  examples  of 
mortality,  and  of  all  men  least  need  artificial  mementos,  or 
coffins  by  our  bedside,  to  mind  us  of  our  graves. 

'Tis  time  to  observe  occurrences,  and  let  nothing  remark- 
able escape  us:  the  supinity  of  elder  days  hath  left  so  much 
in  silence,  or  time  hath  so  martyred  the  records,  that  the 
most  industrious  heads  do  find  no  easy  work  to  erect  a  new 
Britannia. 

'Tis  opportune  to  look  back  upon  old  times,  and  contem- 
plate our  forefathers.  Great  examples  grow  thin,  and  to 
be  fetched  from  the  passed  world.  Simplicity  flies  away, 
and  iniquity  comes  at  long  strides  upon  us.  We  have  enough 
to  do  to  make  up  ourselves  from  present  and  passed  times, 
and  the  whole  stage  of  things  scarce  serveth  for  our  instruc- 
tion. A  complete  piece  of  virtue  must  be  made  from  the 
centos  of  all  ages,  as  all  the  beauties  of  Greece  could  make 
but  one  handsome  Venus. 

When  the  bones  of  King  Arthur  were  digged  up,  the  old 


HYDRIOTAPHIA  201 

race  might  think  they  beheld  therein  some  originals  of  them- 
selves ;  unto  these  of  our  urns  none  here  can  pretend  rela- 
tion, and  can  only  behold  the  relics  of  those  persons,  who, 
in  their  life  giving  the  laws  unto  their  predecessors,  after 
long  obscurity,  now  lie  at  their  mercies.  But,  remembering 
the  early  civility  they  brought  upon  these  countries,  and 
forgetting  long-passed  mischiefs,  we  mercifully  preserve 
their  bones,  and  defile  not  their  ashes. 

In  the  offer  of  these  antiquities  we  drive  not  at  ancient 
families,  so  long  outlasted  by  them.  We  are  far  from  erect- 
ing your  worth  upon  the  pillars  of  your  forefathers,  whose 
merits  you  illustrate.  We  honor  your  old  virtues,  conform- 
able unto  times  before  you,  which  are  the  noblest  armory. 
And,  having  long  experience  of  your  friendly  conversation, 
void  of  empty  formality,  full  of  freedom,  constant  and  gen- 
erous honesty,  I  look  upon  you  as  a  gem  of  the  old  rock, 
and  must  profess  myself  even  to  urn  and  ashes, 
Your  ever  faithful  Friend 
and  Servant, 

Thomas   Browne. 
Norwich,  May  1,  1658. 


HYDRIOTAPHIA  (URN-BURIAL) 


CHAPTER   I. 


In  the  deep  discovery  of  the  subterranean  world,  a  shallow 
part  would  satisfy  some  enquirers ;  who,  if  two  or  three  yards 
were  open  about  the  surface,  would  not  care  to  rake  the 
bowels  of  Potosi,  and  regions  towards  the  centre.  Nature 
hath  furnished  one  part  of  the  earth,  and  man  another.  The 
treasures  of  time  lie  high,  in  urns,  coins,  and  monuments, 
scarce  below  the  roots  of  some  vegetables.  Time  hath  end- 
less rarities,  and  shows  of  all  varieties ;  which  reveals  old 
things  in  heaven,  makes  new  discoveries  in  earth,  and  even 
earth  itself  a  discovery.  That  great  antiquity  America  lay 
buried  for  thousands  of  years,  and  a  large  part  of  the  earth 
is  still  in  the  urn  unto  us. 

Though,  if  Adam  were  made  out  of  an  extract  of  the 
earth,  all  parts  might  challenge  a  restitution,  yet  few  have 
returned  their  bones  far  lower  than  they  might  receive 
them;  not  affecting  the  graves  of  giants,  under  hilly  and 
heavy  coverings,  but  content  with  less  than  their  own  depth, 
have  wished  their  bones  might  lie  soft,  and  the  earth  be 
light  upon  them.  Even  such  as  hope  to  rise  again,  would 
not  be  content  with  central  interment,  or  so  desperately  to 
place  their  relics  as  to  lie  beyond  discovery,  and  in  no  way 
to  be  seen  again ;  which  happy  contrivance  hath  made  com- 
munication with  our  forefathers,  and  left  unto  our  view 
some  parts,  which  they  never  beheld  themselves. 

Though  earth  hath  engrossed  the  name,  yet  water  hath 
proved  the  smartest  grave;  which  in  forty  days  swallowed 
almost  mankind,  and  the  living  creation ;  fishes  not  wholly 
escaping,  except  the  salt  ocean  were  handsomely  contem- 
pered  by  a  mixture  of  the  fresh  element. 

203 


204  BROWNE 

Many  have  taken  voluminous  pains  to  determine  the  state 
of  the  soul  upon  disunion;  but  men  have  been  most  fan- 
tastical in  the  singular  contrivances  of  their  corporal  disso- 
lution :  whilst  the  soberest  nations  have  rested  in  two  ways, 
of  simple  inhumation  and  burning. 

That  carnal  interment  or  burying  was  of  the  elder  date, 
the  old  examples  of  Abraham  and  the  patriarchs  are  suffi- 
cient to  illustrate ;  and  were  without  competition,  if  it  couid 
be  made  out  that  Adam  was  buried  near  Damascus,  or 
Mount  Calvary,  according  to  some  tradition.  God  himself, 
that  buried  but  one,  was  pleased  to  make  choice  of  this  way, 
collectible  from  Scripture  expression,  and  the  hot  contest 
between  Satan  and  the  archangel,  about  discovering  the 
body  of  Moses.  But  the  practice  of  burning  was  also  of 
great  antiquity,  and  of  no  slender  extent.  For  (not  to  de- 
rive the  same  from  Hercules)  noble  descriptions  there  are 
hereof  in  the  Grecian  funerals  of  Homer,  in  the  formal  obse- 
quies of  Patroclus  and  Achilles ;  and  somewhat  elder  in  the 
Theban  war,  and  solemn  combustion  of  Meneceus,  and 
Archemorus,  contemporary  unto  Jair  the  eighth  judge  of 
Israel.  Confirmable  also  among  the  Trojans,  from  the 
funeral  pyre  of  Hector,  burnt  before  the  gates  of  Troy:  and 
the  burning  of  Penthesilea  the  Amazonian  queen:  and  long 
continuance  of  that  practice,  in  the  inward  countries  of 
Asia;  while  as  low  as  the  reign  of  Julian,  we  find  that  the 
king  of  Chionia  burnt  the  body  of  his  son,  and  interred  the 
ashes  in  a  silver  urn. 

The  same  practice  extended  also  far  west ;  and,  besides 
Herulians,  Getes,  and  Thracians,  was  in  use  with  most  of 
the  Celtae,  Sarmatians,  Germans,  Gauls,  Danes,  Swedes, 
Norwegians;  not  tj  omit  some  use  thereof  among  Cartha- 
ginians and  Americans.  Of  greater  antiquity  among  the 
Romans  than  most  opinion,  or  Pliny  seems  to  allow:  for 
(beside  the  old  Table  Laws  of  burning  or  burying  within 
the  city,  of  making  the  funeral  fire  with  planed  wood,  or 
quenching  the  fire  with  wine),  Manlius  the  consul  burnt  the 
body  of  his  son :  Numa,  by  special  clause  of  his  will,  was 
not  burnt  but  buried ;  and  Remus  was  solemnly  burnt,  ac- 
cording to  the  description  of  Ovid. 

Cornelius  Sylla  was  not  the  first  whose  body  was  burned 


HYDRIOTAPHIA  205 

in  Rome,  but  of  the  Cornelian  family;  which,  being  indif- 
ferently, not  frequently  used  before,  from  that  time  spread, 
and  became  the  prevalent  practice.  Not  totally  pursued  in 
the  highest  run  of  cremation ;  for  when  even  crows  were 
funerally  burnt,  Poppaea  the  wife  of  Nero  found  a  peculiar 
grave  interment.  Now  as  all  customs  were  founded  upon 
some  bottom  of  reason,  so  there  wanted  not  grounds  for 
this;  according  to  several  apprehensions  of  the  most  rational 
dissolution.  Some  being  of  the  opinion  of  Thales,  that 
water  was  the  original  of  all  things,  thought  it  most  equal 
to  submit  unto  the  principle  of  putrefaction,  and  conclude 
in  a  moist  relentment.  Others  conceived  it  most  natural  to 
end  in  fire,  as  due  unto  the  master  principle  in  the  composi- 
tion, according  to  the  doctrine  of  Heraclitus;  and  therefore 
heaped  up  large  piles,  more  actively  to  waft  them  toward  that 
element,  whereby  they  also  declined  a  visible  degeneration 
into  worms,  and  left  a  lasting  parcel  of  their  composition. 

Some  apprehended  a  purifying  virtue  in  fire,  refining  the 
grosser  commixture,  and  firing  out  the  ethereal  particles  so 
deeply  immersed  in  it.  And  such  as  by  tradition  or  rational 
conjecture  held  any  hint  of  the  final  pyre  of  all  things,  or 
that  this  element  at  last  must  be  too  hard  for  all  the  rest, 
might  conceive  most  naturally  of  the  fiery  dissolution. 
Others  pretending  no  natural  grounds,  politicly  declined 
the  malice  of  enemies  upon  their  buried  bodies.  Which  con- 
sideration led  Sylla  unto  this  practice;  who  having  thus 
served  the  body  of  Marius,  could  not  but  fear  a  retaliation 
upon  his  own ;  entertained  after  in  the  civil  wars,  and  re- 
vengeful contentions  of  Rome. 

But,  as  many  nations  embraced,  and  many  left  it  indiffer- 
ent, so  others  too  much  affected,  or  strictly  declined  this 
practice.  The  Indian  Brahmans  seemed  too  great  friends 
unto  fire,  who  burnt  themselves  alive,  and  thought  it  the 
noblest  way  to  end  their  da)Ts  in  fire ;  according  to  the  ex- 
pression of  the  Indian,  burning  himself  at  Athens,  in  his 
last  words  upon  the  pyre  unto  the  amazed  spectators,  «  Thus 
I  make  myself  immortal.)) 

But  the  Chaldeans,  the  great  idolaters  of  fire,  abhorred 
the  burning  of  their  carcases,  as  a  pollution  of  that  deity. 
The  Persian  magi  declined  it  upon  the  like  scruple,  and 


2o6  BROWNE 

being  only  solicitous  about  their  bones,  exposed  their  flesh 
to  the  prey  of  birds  and  dogs.  And  the  Parsees  now  in 
India,  which  expose  their  bodies  unto  vultures,  and  endure 
not  so  much  as  feretra  or  biers  of  wood,  the  proper  fuel  of 
fire,  are  led  on  with  such  niceties.  But  whether  the  ancient 
Germans,  who  burned  their  dead,  held  any  such  fear  to  pol- 
lute their  deity  of  Herthus,  or  the  Earth,  we  have  no  authen- 
tic conjecture. 

The  Egyptians  were  afraid  of  fire,  not  as  a  deity,  but  a 
devouring  element,  mercilessly  consuming  their  bodies,  and 
leaving  too  little  of  them ;  and  therefore  by  precious  em- 
balmments, depositure  in  dry  earths,  or  handsome  enclosure 
in  glasses,  contrived  the  notablest  ways  of  integral  conser- 
vation. And  from  such  Egyptian  scruples,  imbibed  by  Py- 
thagoras, it  may  be  conjectured  that  Numa  and  the  Pytha- 
gorical  sect  first  waved  the  fiery  solution. 

The  Scythians,  who  swore  by  wind  and  sword,  that  is,  by 
life  and  death,  were  so  far  from  burning  their  bodies,  that 
they  declined  all  interment,  and  made  their  graves  in  the 
air:  and  the  Ichthyophagi,  or  fish-eating  nations  about 
Egypt,  affected  the  sea  for  their  grave ;  thereby  declining 
visible  corruption,  and  restoring  the  debt  of  their  bodies. 
Whereas  the  old  heroes,  in  Homer,  dreaded  nothing  more 
than  water  or  drowning;  probably  upon  the  old  opinion  of 
the  fiery  substance  of  the  soul,  only  extinguishable  by  that 
element;  and  therefore  the  poet  emphatically  implieth  the 
total  destruction  in  this  kind  of  death,  which  happened  to 
Ajax  Oileus. 

The  old  Balearians  had  a  peculiar  mode,  for  they  used 
great  urns  and  much  wood,  but  no  fire  in  their  burials,  while 
they  bruised  the  flesh  and  bones  of  the  dead,  crowded  them 
into  urns,  and  laid  heaps  of  wood  upon  them.  And  the 
Chinese  without  cremation  or  urnal  interment  of  their 
bodies,  make  use  of  trees  and  much  burning,  while  they 
plant  a  pine-tree  by  their  grave,  and  burn  great  numbers  of 
printed  draughts  of  slaves  and  horses  over  it,  civilly  content 
with  their  companions  in  effigy,  which  barbarous  nations 
exact  unto  reality. 

Christians  abhorred  this  way  of  obsequies,  and  though 
they  sticked  not  to  give  their  bodies  to  be  burned  in  their 


HYDRIOTAPHIA  207 

lives,  detested  that  mode  after  death ;  affecting  rather  a  de- 
positing than  absumption,  and  properly  submitting  unto  the 
sentence  of  God,  to  return  not  unto  ashes  but  unto  dust 
again,  conformable  unto  the  practice  of  the  patriarchs,  the 
interment  of  our  Saviour,  of  Peter,  Paul,  and  the  ancient 
martyrs.  And  so  far  at  last  declining  promiscuous  inter- 
ment with  Pagans,  that  some  have  suffered  ecclesiastical 
censures,  for  making  no  scruple  thereof. 

The  Mussulman  believers  will  never  admit  this  fiery  reso- 
lution. For  they  hold  a  present  trial  from  their  black  and 
white  angels  in  the  grave;  which  they  must  have  made  so 
hollow,  that  they  may  rise  upon  their  knees. 

The  Jewish  nation,  though  they  entertained  the  old  way 
of  inhumation,  yet  sometimes  admitted  this  practice.  For 
the  men  of  Jabesh  burnt  the  body  of  Saul ;  and  by  no  pro- 
hibited practice,  to  avoid  contagion  or  pollution,  in  time  of 
pestilence,  burnt  the  bodies  of  their  friends.  And  when 
they  burnt  not  their  dead  bodies,  yet  sometimes  used  great 
burnings  near  and  about  them,  deducible  from  the  expres- 
sions concerning  Jehoram,  Zedechias,  and  the  sumptuous 
pyre  of  Asa.  And  were  so  little  averse  from  Pagan  burn- 
ing, that  the  Jews  lamenting  the  death  of  Csesar,  their 
friend  and  revenger  on  Pompey,  frequented  the  place  where 
his  body  was  burnt  for  many  nights  together.  And  as  they 
raised  noble  monuments  and  mausoleums  for  their  own 
nation,  so  they  were  not  scrupulous  in  erecting  some  for 
others,  according  to  the  practice  of  Daniel,  who  left  that 
lasting  sepulchral  pile  in  Ecbatana,  for  the  Median  and  Per- 
sian kings. 

But  even  in  times  of  subjection  and  hottest  use,  they  con- 
formed not  unto  the  Roman  practice  of  burning ;  whereby 
the  prophecy  was  secured  concerning  the  body  of  Christ, 
that  it  should  not  see  corruption,  or  a  bone  should  not  be 
broken ;  which  we  believe  was  also  providentially  prevented, 
from  the  soldier's  spear  and  nails  that  passed  by  the  little 
bones  both  in  his  hands  and  feet ;  not  of  ordinary  contri- 
vance, that  it  should  not  corrupt  on  the  cross,  according  to 
the  laws  of  Roman  crucifixion ;  or  an  hair  of  his  head  perish, 
though  observable  in  Jewish  customs,  to  cut  the  hairs  of 
malefactors. 


208  BROWNE 

Nor  in  their  long-  cohabitation  with  Egyptians,  crept  into 
a  custom  of  their  exact  embalming,  wherein  deeply  slashing 
the  muscles,  and  taking  out  the  brains  and  entrails,  they 
had  broken  the  subject  of  so  entire  a  resurrection,  nor  fully 
answered  the  types  of  Enoch,  Elijah,  or  Jonah,  which  yet 
to  prevent  or  restore,  was  of  equal  facility  unto  that  rising 
power,  able  to  break  the  fasciations  and  bands  of  death,  to 
get  clear  out  of  the  cerecloth,  and  an  hundred  pounds  of 
ointment,  and  out  of  the  sepulchre  before  the  stone  was 
rolled  from  it. 

But  though  they  embraced  not  this  practice  of  burning, 
yet  entertained  they  many  ceremonies  agreeable  unto  Greek 
and  Roman  obsequies.  And  he  that  observeth  their  funeral 
feasts,  their  lamentations  at  the  grave,  their  music,  and 
weeping  mourners;  how  they  closed  the  eyes  of  their 
friends,  how  they  washed,  anointed,  and  kissed  the  dead; 
may  easily  conclude  these  were  not  mere  Pagan  civilities. 
But  whether  that  mournful  burthen,  and  treble  calling  out 
after  Absalom,  had  any  reference  unto  the  last  conclama- 
tion,  and  triple  valediction,  used  by  other  nations,  we  hold 
but  a  wavering  conjecture. 

Civilians  make  sepulture  but  of  the  law  of  nations,  others 
do  naturally  found  it  and  discover  it  also  in  animals.  They 
that  are  so  thick-skinned  as  still  to  credit  the  story  of  the 
Phoenix^  may  say  something  for  animal  burning.  More  seri- 
ous conjectures  find  some  examples  of  sepulture  in  elephants, 
cranes,  the  sepulchral  cells  of  pismires,  and  practice  of  bees 
— which  civil  society  carrieth  out  their  dead,  and  hath  ex- 
equies, if  not  interments. 


CHAPTER   II. 

The  solemnities,  ceremonies,  rites  of  their  cremation  or 
interment,  so  solemnly  delivered  by  authors,  we  shall  not 
disparage  our  reader  to  repeat.  Only  the  last  and  lasting 
part  in  their  urns,  collected  bones  and  ashes,  we  cannot 
wholly  omit,  or  decline  that  subject,  which  occasion  lately 
presented,  in  some  discovered  among  us. 

In  a  field  of  Old   Walsingham,  not  many  months  past, 


HYDRIOTAPHIA  209 

were  digged  tip  between  forty  and  fifty  urns,  deposited  in  a 
dry  and  sandy  soil,  not  a  yard  deep,  not  far  from  one  an- 
other. Not  all  strictly  of  one  figure,  but  most  answering 
these  described :  some  containing  two  pounds  of  bones,  dis- 
tinguishable in  skulls,  ribs,  jaws,  thigh  bones,  and  teeth, 
with  fresh  impressions  of  their  combustion;  besides  the 
extraneous  substances,  like  pieces  of  small  boxes,  or  combs 
handsomely  wrought,  handles  of  small  brass  instruments, 
brazen  nippers,  and  in  one  some  kind  of  opal. 

Near  the  same  plot  of  ground,  for  about  six  yards  com- 
pass, were  digged  up  coals  and  incinerated  substances,  which 
began  conjecture  that  this  was  the  ustrina  or  place  of  burn- 
ing their  bodies,  or  some  sacrificing  place  unto  the  manes, 
which  was  properly  below  the  surface  of  the  ground,  as  the 
ar<z  and  altars  unto  the  gods  and  heroes  above  it. 

That  these  were  the  urns  of  Romans  from  the  common 
custom  and  place  where  they  were  found,  is  no  obscure  con- 
jecture, not  far  from  a  Roman  garrison,  and  but  five  miles 
from  Brancaster,  set  down  by  ancient  record  under  the  name 
of  Brannodunum.  And  where  the  adjoining  town,  contain- 
ing seven  parishes,  in  no  very  different  sound,  but  Saxon 
termination,  still  retains  the  name  of  Burnham,  which  being - 
an  early  station,  it  is  not  improbable  the  neighbor  parts 
were  filled  with  habitations,  either  of  Romans  themselves, 
or  Britons  Romanized,  which  observed  the  Roman  customs. 

Nor  is  it  improbable,  that  the  Romans  early  possessed  this 
country.  For  though  we  meet  not  with  such  strict  particu- 
lars of  these  parts  before  the  new  institution  of  Constantine 
and  military  charge  of  the  count  of  the  Saxon  shore,  and 
that  about  the  Saxon  invasions,  the  Dalmatian  horsemen 
were  in  the  garrison  of  Brancaster;  yet  in  the  time  of  Clau- 
dius, Vespasian,  and  Severus,  we  find  no  less  than  three 
legions  dispersed  through  the  province  of  Britain.  And  as 
high  as  the  reign  of  Claudius  a  great  overthrow  was  given 
unto  the  Iceni,  by  the  Roman  lieutenant  Ostorius.  Not 
long  after,  the  country  was  so  molested,  that,  in  hope  of  a 
better  state,  Prasutagus  bequeathed  his  kingdom  unto  Nero 
and  his  daughters ;  and  Boadicea,  his  queen,  fought  the  last 
decisive  battle  with  Paulinus.  After  which  time,  and  con- 
quest of  Agricola,  the  lieutenant  of  Vespasian,  probable  it 
14 


210  BROWNE 

is,  they  wholly  possessed  this  country,  ordering  it  into  gar- 
risons or  habitations  best  suitable  with  their  securities;  and 
so  some  Roman  habitations  not  improbable  in  these  parts, 
as  high  as  the  time  of  Vespasian,  where  the  Saxons  after 
seated,  in  whose  thin-filled  maps  we  yet  find  the  name  of 
Walsingham.  Now  if  the  Iceni  were  but  Gammadims,  An- 
conians,  or  men  that  lived  in  an  angle,  wedge,  or  elbow  of 
Britain,  according  to  the  original  etymology,  this  country 
will  challenge  the  emphatical  appellation,  as  most  properly 
making  the  elbow  or  iken  of  Icenia. 

That  Britain  was  notably  populous  is  undeniable,  from 
that  expression  of  Caesar.  That  the  Romans  themselves 
were  early  in  no  small  numbers,  seventy  thousand,  with 
their  associates,  slain  by  Boadicea,  affords  a  sure  account. 
And  though  not  many  Roman  habitations  are  now  known, 
yet  some,  by  old  works,  ram  piers,  coins,  and  urns,  do  testify 
their  possessions.  Some  urns  have  been  found  at  Castor, 
some  also  about  Southcreak,  and,  not  many  years  past,  no 
less  than  ten  in  a  field  at  Buxton,  not  near  any  recorded 
garrison.  Nor  is  it  strange  to  find  Roman  coins  of  copper 
and  silver  among  us;  of  Vespasian,  Trajan,  Adrian,  Corn- 
modus,  Antoninus,  Severus,  etc. ;  but  the  greater  number 
of  Dioclesian,  Constantine,  Constans,  Valens,  with  many  of 
Victorinus,  Posthumius,  Tetricus,  and  the  thirty  tyrants  in 
the  reign  of  Gallienus ;  and  some  as  high  as  Adrianus  have 
been  found  about  Thetford,  or  Sitomagus,  mentioned  in  the 
Itinerary  of  Antoninus,  as  the  way  from  Venta  or  Castor 
unto  London.  But  the  most  frequent  discovery  is  made  at 
the  two  Castors  by  Norwich  and  Yarmouth,  at  Burghcastle, 
and  Brancaster. 

Besides  the  Norman,  Saxon,  and  Danish  pieces  of  Cuth- 
red,  Canutus,  William,  Matilda,  and  others,  some  British 
coins  of  gold  have  been  dispersedly  found,  and  no  small 
number  of  silver  pieces  near  Norwich,  with  a  rude  head 
upon  the  obverse,  and  an  ill-formed  horse  on  the  reverse, 
with  inscriptions  Ic.  Duro.  T.;  whether  implying  Iceni, 
Durotriges,  Tascia,  or  Trinobantes,  we  leave  to  higher  con- 
jecture. Vulgar  chronology  will  have  Norwich  Castle  as 
old  as  Julius  Caesar;  but  his  distance  from  these  parts,  and 
its  gothic  form  of  structure,  abridgeth  such  antiquity.     The 


HYDRIOTAPHIA  211 

British  coins  afford  conjecture  of  early  habitation  in  these 
parts,  though  the  city  of  Norwich  arose  from  the  ruins  of 
Venta;  and  though,  perhaps,  not  without  some  habitation 
before,  was  enlarged,  builded,  and  nominated  by  the  Saxons. 
In  what  bulk  or  populosity  it  stood  in  the  old  East- Angle 
monarchy  tradition  and  history  are  silent.  Considerable  it 
was  in  the  Danish  eruptions,  when  Sueno  burnt  Thetford 
and  Norwich,  and  Ulfketel,  the  governor  thereof,  was  able 
to  make  some  resistance,  and  after  endeavored  to  burn  the 
Danish  navy. 

How  the  Romans  left  so  many  coins  in  countries  of  their 
conquests  seems  of  hard  resolution ;  except  we  consider  how 
they  buried  them  under  ground  when,  upon  barbarous  in- 
vasions, they  were  fain  to  desert  their  habitations  in  most 
parts  of  their  empire,  and  the  strictness  of  their  laws  for- 
bidding to  transfer  them  to  any  other  uses:  wherein  the 
Spartans  were  singular,  who,  to  make  their  copper  money 
useless,  contempered  it  with  vinegar.  That  the  Britons  left 
any,  some  wonder,  since  their  money  was  iron  and  iron 
rings  before  Caesar ;  and  those  of  after-stamp  by  permission, 
and  but  small  in  bulk  and  bigness.  That  so  few  of  the 
Saxons  remain,  because,  overcome  by  succeeding  conquerors 
upon  the  place,  their  coins,  by  degrees,  passed  into  other 
stamps  and  the  mark  of  after-ages. 

Than  the  time  of  these  urns  deposited,  or  precise  antiq- 
uity of  these  relics,  nothing  of  more  uncertainty ;  for  since 
the  lieutenant  of  Claudius  seems  to  have  made  the  first 
progress  into  these  parts,  since  Boadicea  was  overthrown 
by  the  forces  of  Nero,  and  Agricola  put  a  full  end  to  these 
conquests,  it  is  not  probable  the  country  was  fully  garri- 
soned or  planted  before;  and,  therefore,  however  these  urns 
might  be  of  later  date,  not  likely  of  higher  antiquity. 

And  the  succeeding  emperors  desisted  not  from  their  con- 
quests in  these  and  other  parts,  as  testified  by  history  and 
medal-inscription  yet  extant :  the  province  of  Britain,  in  so 
divided  a  distance  from  Rome,  beholding  the  faces  of  many 
imperial  persons,  and  in  large  account,  no  fewer  than  Caesar, 
Claudius,  Britannicus,  Vespasian,  Titus,  Adrian,  Severus, 
Commodus,  Geta,  and  Caracalla. 

A  great  obscurity  herein,  because  no  medal  or  emperor's 


212  BROWNE 

coin  enclosed,  which  might  denote  the  date  of  their  inter- 
ments; observable  in  many  urns,  and  found  in  those  of 
Spitalfields,  by  London,  which  contained  the  coins  of  Clau- 
dius, Vespasian,  Commodus,  Antoninus,  attended  with  lacry- 
matories,  lamps,  bottles  of  liquor,  and  other  appurtenances 
of  affectionate  superstition  which  in  these  rural  interments 
were  wanting. 

Some  uncertainty  there  is  from  the  period  or  term  of 
burning,  or  the  cessation  of  that  practice.  Macrobius  af- 
firmeth  it  was  disused  in  his  days ;  but  most  agree,  though 
without  authentic  record,  that  it  ceased  with  the  Antonini, 
— most  safely  to  be  understood  after  the  reign  of  those  em- 
perors which  assumed  the  name  of  Antoninus,  extending 
unto  Heliogabalus.  Not  strictly  after  Marcus;  for  about 
fifty  years  later,  we  find  the  magnificent  burning  and  conse- 
cration of  Severus ;  and,  if  we  so  fix  this  period  or  cessation, 
these  urns  will  challenge  above  thirteen  hundred  years. 

But  whether  this  practice  was  only  then  left  by  emperors 
and  great  persons,  or  generally  about  Rome,  and  not  in 
other  provinces,  we  hold  not  authentic  account;  for  after 
Tertullian,  in  the  days  of  Minucius,  it  was  obviously  ob- 
jected upon  Christians,  that  they  condemned  the  practice  of 
burning.  And  we  find  a  passage  in  Sidonius,  which  asserted 
that  practice  in  France  unto  a  lower  account.  And,  per- 
haps, not  fully  discussed  till  Christianity  fully  established, 
wihch  gave  the  final  extinction  to  these  sepulchral  bonfires. 

Whether  they  were  the  bones  of  men,  or  women,  or  chil- 
dren, no  authentic  decision  from  ancient  custom  in  distant 
places  of  burial.  Although  not  improbably  conjectured, 
that  the  double  sepulture  or  burying-place  of  Abraham,  had 
in  it  such  intention.  But  from  exility  of  bones,  thinness  of 
skulls,  smallness  of  teeth,  ribs,  and  thigh  bones,  not  im- 
probable that  many  thereof  were  persons  of  minor  age,  or 
women.  Confirmable  also  from  things  contained  in  them. 
In  most  were  found  substances  resembling  combs,  plates 
like  boxes,  fastened  with  iron  pins,  and  handsomely  over- 
wrought like  the  necks  or  bridges  of  musical  instruments ; 
long  brass  plates  overwrought  like  the  handles  of  neat  im- 
plements ;  brazen  nippers,  to  pull  away  hair ;  and  in  one  a 
kind  of  opal,  yet  maintaining  a  bluish  color. 


HYDRIOTAPHIA  215 

Now  that  they  accustomed  to  burn  or  bury  with  them, 
things  wherein  they  excelled,  delighted,  or  which  were  dear 
unto  them,  either  as  farewells  unto  all  pleasure,  or  vain 
apprehension  that  they  might  use  them  in  the  other  world, 
is  testified  by  all  antiquity,  observable  from  the  gem  or 
beryl  ring  upon  the  finger  of  Cynthia,  the  mistress  of  Pro- 
pertius,  when  after  her  funeral  pyre  her  ghost  appeared  unto 
him ;  and  notably  illustrated  from  the  contents  of  that 
Roman  urn  preserved  by  Cardinal  Farnese,  wherein  besides 
great  number  of  gems  with  heads  of  gods  and  goddesses, 
were  found  an  ape  of  agath,  a  grasshopper,  an  elephant  of 
amber,  a  crystal  ball,  three  glasses,  two  spoons,  and  six 
nuts  of  crystal ;  and  beyond  the  content  of  urns,  in  the  mon- 
ument of  Childerick  the  First,  and  fourth  king  from  Phara- 
mond,  casually  discovered  three  years  past  at  Tournay,  re- 
storing unto  the  world  much  gold  richly  adorning  his  sword, 
two  hundred  rubies,  many  hundred  imperial  coins,  three 
hundred  golden  bees,  the  bones  and  horse-shoes  of  his  horse 
interred  with  him,  according  to  the  barbarous  magnificence 
of  those  days  in  their  sepulchral  obsequies.  Although,  if 
we  steer  by  the  conjecture  of  many  and  Septuagint  expres- 
sion, some  trace  thereof  may  be  found  even  with  the  ancient 
Hebrews,  not  only  from  the  sepulchral  treasure  of  David, 
but  the  circumcision  knives  which  Joshua  also  buried. 

Some  men,  considering  the  contents  of  these  urns,  lasting 
pieces  and  toys  included  in  them,  and  the  custom  of  burning 
with  many  other  nations,  might  somewhat  doubt  whether 
all  urns  found  among  us,  were  properly  Roman  relics,  or 
some  not  belonging  unto  our  British,  Saxon,  or  Danish  fore- 
fathers. 

In  the  form  of  burial  among  the  ancient  Britons,  the  large 
discourses  of  Caesar,  Tacitus,  and  Strabo  are  silent.  For 
the  discovery  whereof,  with  other  particulars,  we  much  de- 
plore the  loss  of  that  letter  which  Cicero  expected  or  received 
from  his  brother  Quintus,  as  a  resolution  of  British  customs; 
or  the  account  which  might  have  been  made  by  Scribonius 
Largus,  the  physician,  accompanying  the  Emperor  Claudius, 
who  might  have  also  discovered  that  frugal  bit  of  the  old 
Britons,  which  in  the  bigness  of  a  bean  could  satisfy  their 
thirst  and  hunger. 


214  BROWNE 

But  that  the  Druids  and  ruling  priests  used  to  burn  and 
bury,  is  expressed  by  Pomponius ;  that  Bellinus,  the  brother 
of  Brennus,  and  king  of  Britons,  was  burnt,  is  acknowledged 
by  Polydorus,  as  also  by  Amandus  Zierexensis  in  Historia, 
and  Pineda  in  his  Universa  Historia  (Spanish).  That  they 
held  that  practice  in  Gallia,  Caesar  expressly  delivereth. 
Whether  the  Britons  (probably  descended  from  them,  of  like 
religion,  language,  and  manners)  did  not  sometimes  make 
use  of  burning,  or  whether  at  least  such  as  were  after  civil- 
ized unto  the  Roman  life  and  manners,  conformed  not  unto 
this  practice,  we  have  no  historical  assertion  or  denial.  But 
since,  from  the  account  of  Tacitus,  the  Romans  early  wrought 
so  much  civility  upon  the  British  stock,  that  they  brought 
them  to  build  temples,  to  wear  the  gown,  and  study  the 
Roman  laws  and  language,  that  they  conformed  also  unto 
their  religious  rites  and  customs  in  burials,  seems  no  im- 
probable conjecture. 

That  burning  the  dead  was  used  in  Sarmatia  is  affirmed 
by  Gaguinus ;  that  the  Sueons  and  Gothlanders  used  to  burn 
their  princes  and  great  persons,  is  delivered  by  Saxo  and 
Olaus;  that  this  was  the  old  German  practice,  is  also  as- 
serted by  Tacitus.  And  though  we  are  bare  in  historical 
particulars  of  such  obsequies  in  this  island,  or  that  the 
Saxons,  Jutes,  and  Angles  burnt  their  dead,  yet  came  they 
from  parts  where  'twas  of  ancient  practice;  the  Germans 
using  it,  from  whom  they  were  descended.  And  even  in 
Jutland  and  Sleswick  in  Anglia  Cymbrica,  urns  with  bones 
were  found  not  many  years  before  us. 

But  the  Danish  and  northern  nations  have  raised  an  era 
or  point  of  compute  from  their  custom  of  burning  their  dead  •- 
some  deriving  it  from  Unguinus,  some  from  Frotho  the 
Great,  who  ordained  by  law,  that  princes  and  chief  com- 
manders should  be  committed  unto  the  fire,  though  the 
common  sort  had  the  common  grave  interment.  So  Star- 
katterus,  that  old  hero,  was  burnt,  and  Ringo  royally  burnt 
the  body  of  Harold  the  king  slain  by  him. 

What  time  this  custom  generally  expired  in  that  nation, 
we  discern  no  assured  period;  whether  it  ceased  before 
Christianity,  or  upon  their  conversion,  by  Ansgarius  the 
Gaul,  in  the  time  of  Ludovicus  Pius  the  son  of  Charles  the 


HYDRIOTAPHIA  2,5 

Great,  according  to  good  computes ;  or  whether  it  might  not 
be  used  by  some  persons,  while  for  an  hundred  and  eighty 
years  Paganism  and  Christianity  were  promiscuously  em- 
braced among  them,  there  is  no  assured  conclusion.  About 
which  time  the  Danes  were  busy  in  England,  and  particu- 
larly infested  this  country ;  where  many  castles  and  strong- 
holds were  built  by  them,  or  against  them,  and  great  num- 
ber of  names  and  families  still  derived  from  them.  But 
since  this  custom  was  probably  disused  before  their  invasion 
or  conquest,  and  the  Romans  confessedly  practised  the  same 
since  their  possession  of  this  island,  the  most  assured  ac- 
count will  fall  upon  the  Romans,  or  Britons  Romanized. 

However,  certain  it  is,  that  urns  conceived  of  no  Roman 
original,  are  often  digged  up  both  in  Norway  and  Denmark, 
handsomely  described,  and  graphically  represented  by  the 
learned  physician  Wormius.  And  in  some  parts  of  Den- 
mark in  no  ordinary  number,  as  stands  delivered  by  authors 
exactly  describing  those  countries.  And  they  contained  not 
only  bones,  but  many  other  substances  in  them,  as  knives, 
pieces  of  iron,  brass,  and  wood,  and  one  of  Norway  a  brass 
gilded  jew's-harp. 

Nor  were  they  confused  or  careless  in  disposing  the 
noblest  sort,  while  they  placed  large  stones  in  circle  about 
the  urns  or  bodies  which  they  interred ;  somewhat  answera- 
ble unto  the  monument  of  Rollrich  stones  in  England,  or 
sepulchral  monument  probably  erected  by  Rollo,  who  after 
conquered  Normandy;  where  'tis  not  improbable  somewhat 
might  be  discovered.  Meanwhile  to  what  nation  or  person 
belonged  that  large  urn  found  at  Ashbury,  containing 
mighty  bones,  and  a  buckler ;  what  those  large  urns  found 
at  Little  Massingham ;  or  why  the  Anglesea  urns  are  placed 
with  their  mouths  downward,  remains  yet  undiscovered. 


CHAPTER   III. 

Plastered  and  whited  sepulchres  were  anciently  affected 
in  cadaverous  and  corrupted  burials;  and  the  rigid  Jews 
were  wont  to  garnish  the  sepulchres  of  the  righteous. 
Ulysses,  in  Hecuba,  cared  not  how  meanly  he  lived,  so  he 


216  BROWNE 

might  find  a  noble  tomb  after  death.  Great  persons  affected 
great  monuments;  and  the  fair  and  larger  urns  contained 
no  vulgar  ashes,  which  makes  that  disparity  in  those  which 
time  discovereth  among  us.  The  present  urns  were  not  of 
one  capacity,  the  largest  containing  above  a  gallon,  some 
not  much  above  half  that  measure ;  nor  all  of  one  figure, 
wherein  there  is  no  strict  conformity  in  the  same  or  differ- 
ent countries;  observable  from  those  represented  by  Casa- 
lius,  Bosio,  and  others,  though  all  found  in  Italy;  while 
many  have  handles,  ears,  and  long  necks,  but  most  imitate 
a  circular  figure,  in  a  spherical  and  round  composure; 
whether  from  any  mystery,  best  duration  or  capacity,  were 
but  a  conjecture.  But  the  common  form  with  necks  was  a 
proper  figure,  making  our  last  bed  like  our  first ;  nor  much 
unlike  the  urns  of  our  nativity  while  we  lay  in  the  nether  part 
of  the  earth,  and  inward  vault  of  our  microcosm.  Many 
urns  are  red,  these  but  of  a  black  color,  somewhat  smooth, 
and  dully  sounding,  which  begat  some  doubt,  whether  they 
were  burnt,  or  only  baked  in  oven  or  sun,  according  to  the 
ancient  way,  in  many  bricks,  tiles,  pots,  and  testaceous 
works ;  and,  as  the  word  testa  is  properly  to  be  taken,  when 
occurring  without  addition  and  chiefly  intended  by  Pliny, 
when  he  commendeth  bricks  and  tiles  of  two  years  old,  and 
to  make  them  in  the  spring.  Nor  only  these  concealed 
pieces,  but  the  open  magnificence  of  antiquity,  ran  much  in 
the  artifice  of  clay.  Hereof  the  house  of  Mausolus  was 
built,  thus  old  Jupiter  stood  in  the  Capitol,  and  the  statna 
of  Hercules,  made  in  the  reign  of  Tarquinius  Priscus,  was 
extant  in  Pliny's  days.  And  such  as  declined  burning  or 
funeral  urns,  affected  coffins  of  clay,  according  to  the  mode 
of  Pythagoras,  and  way  preferred  by  Varro.  But  the  spirit 
of  great  ones  was  above  these  circumscriptions,  affecting 
copper,  silver,  gold,  and  porphyry  urns,  wherein  Severus 
lay,  after  a  serious  view  and  sentence  on  that  which  should 
contain  him.  Some  of  these  urns  were  thought  to  have 
been  silvered  over,  from  sparklings  in  several  pots,  with 
small  tinsel  parcels ;  uncertain  whether  from  the  earth,  or 
the  first  mixture  in  them. 

Among  these  urns  we  could  obtain  no  good  account  of 
their  coverings;   only  one  seemed  arched  over  with  some 


HYDRIOTAPHIA  217 

kind  of  brick-work.  Of  those  found  at  Buxton,  some  were 
covered  with  flints,  some,  in  other  parts,  with  tiles;  those 
at  Yarmouth  Caster  were  closed  with  Roman  bricks,  and 
some  have  proper  earthen  covers  adapted  and  fitted  to  them. 
But  in  the  Homerical  urn  of  Patroclus,  whatever  was  the 
solid  tegument,  we  find  the  immediate  covering  to  be  a 
purple  piece  of  silk :  and  such  as  had  no  covers  might  have 
the  earth  closely  pressed  into  them,  after  which  disposure 
were  probably  some  of  these,  wherein  we  found  the  bones 
and  ashes  half  mortared  unto  the  sand  and  sides  of  the  urn, 
and  some  long  roots  of  quich,  or  dog's-grass,  wreathed  about 
the  bones. 

No  lamps,  included  liquors,  lacrymatories,  or  tear  bottles, 
attended  these  rural  urns,  either  as  sacred  unto  the  manes, 
or  passionate  expressions  of  their  surviving  friends.  While 
with  rich  flames,  and  hired  tears,  they  solemnized  their 
obsequies,  and  in  the  most  lamented  monuments  made  one 
part  of  their  inscriptions.  Some  find  sepulchral  vessels  con- 
taining liquors,  which  time  hath  incrassated  into  jellies. 
For,  besides  these  lacrymatories,  notable  lamps,  with  vessels 
of  oils,  and  aromatical  liquors,  attended  noble  ossuaries; 
and  some  yet  retaining  a  vinosity  and  spirit  in  them,  which, 
if  any  have  tasted,  they  have  far  exceeded  the  palates  of 
antiquity.  Liquors  not  to  be  computed  by  years  of  annual 
magistrates,  but  by  great  conjunctions  and  the  fatal  periods 
of  kingdoms.  The  draughts  of  consulary  date  were  but 
crude  unto  these,  and  Opimian  wine  but  in  the  must  unto 
them. 

In  sundry  graves  and  sepulchres  we  meet  with  rings, 
coins,  and  chalices.  Ancient  frugality  was  so  severe,  that 
they  allowed  no  gold  to  attend  the  corpse,  but  only  that 
which  served  to  fasten  their  teeth.  Whether  the  Opaline 
stone  in  this  were  burnt  upon  the  finger  of  the  dead,  or  cast 
into  the  fire  by  some  affectionate  friend,  it  will  consist  with 
either  custom.  But  other  incinerable  substances  were  found 
so  fresh,  that  they  could  feel  00  singe  from  fire.  These, 
upon  view,  were  judged  to  be  wood;  but,  sinking  in  water, 
and  tried  by  the  fire,  we  found  them  to  be  bone  or  ivory. 
In  their  hardness  and  yellow  color  they  most  resembled  box, 
which,  in  old  expressions,  found  the  epithet  of  eternal,  and 


2i8  BROWNE 

perhaps  in  such  conservatories  might  have  passed  uncor- 
rupted. 

That  bay  leaves  were  found  green  in  the  tomb  of  S. 
Humbert,  after  an  hundred  and  fifty  years,  was  looked  upon 
as  miraculous.  Remarkable  it  was  unto  old  spectators,  that 
the  cypress  of  the  temple  of  Diana  lasted  so  many  hundred 
years.  The  wood  of  the  ark,  and  olive-rod  of  Aaron,  were 
older  at  the  captivity ;  but  the  cypress  of  the  ark  of  Noah 
was  the  greatest  vegetable  of  antiquity,  if  Josephus  were  not 
deceived  by  some  fragments  of  it  in  his  days :  to  omit  the 
moor  logs  and  fir  trees  found  underground  in  many  parts 
of  England;  the  undated  ruins  of  winds,  floods,  or  earth- 
quakes, and  which  in  Flanders  still  show  from  what  quarter 
they  fell,  as  generally  lying  in  a  northeast  position. 

But  though  we  found  not  these  pieces  to  be  wood,  accord- 
ing to  first  apprehensions,  yet  we  missed  not  altogether  of 
some  woody  substance ;  for  the  bones  were  not  so  clearly 
picked  but  some  coals  were  found  amongst  them ;  a  way  to 
make  wood  perpetual,  and  a  fit  associate  for  metal,  whereon 
was  laid  the  foundation  of  the  great  Ephesian  temple,  and 
which  were  made  the  lasting  tests  of  old  boundaries  and 
landmarks.  Whilst  we  look  on  these,  we  admire  not  obser- 
vations of  coals  found  fresh  after  four  hundred  years.  In 
a  long-deserted  habitation  even  egg-shells  have  been  found 
fresh,  not  tending  to  corruption. 

In  the  monument  of  King  Childerick  the  iron  relicks  were 
found  all  rusty  and  crumbling  into  pieces;  but  our  little 
iron  pins,  which  fastened  the  ivory  works,  held  well  to- 
gether, and  lost  not  their  magnetical  quality,  though  want- 
ing a  tenacious  moisture  for  the  firmer  union  of  parts ;  al- 
though it  be  hardly  drawn  into  fusion,  yet  that  metal  soon 
submitteth  unto  rust  and  dissolution.  In  the  brazen  pieces 
we  admired  not  the  duration,  but  the  freedom  from  rust, 
and  ill  savor,  upon  the  hardest  attrition ;  but  now  exposed 
unto  the  piercing  atoms  of  air,  in  the  space  of  a  few  months, 
they  begin  to  spot  and  betray  their  green  entrails.  We  con- 
ceive not  these  urns  to  have  descended  thus  naked  as  they 
appear,  or  to  have  entered  their  graves  without  the  old  habit 
of  flowers.  The  urn  of  Philopcemen  was  so  laden  with  flow- 
ers and  ribbons,  that  it  afforded  no  sight  of  itself.     The  rigid 


HYDRIOTAPHIA  219 

Lycurgus  allowed  olive  and  myrtle.  The  Athenians  might 
fairly  except  against  the  practice  of  Democritus,  to  be  buried 
up  in  honey,  as  fearing  to  embezzle  a  great  commodity  of 
their  country,  and  the  best  of  that  kind  in  Europe.  But 
Plato  seemed  too  frugally  politic,  who  allowed  no  larger 
monument  than  would  contain  four  heroic  verses,  and  de- 
signed the  most  barren  ground  for  sepulture :  though  we 
cannot  commend  the  goodness  of  that  sepulchral  ground 
which  was  set  at  no  higher  rate  than  the  mean  salary  of 
Judas.  Though  the  earth  had  confounded  the  ashes  of  these 
ossuaries,  yet  the  bones  were  so  smartly  burnt,  that  some 
thin  plates  of  brass  were  found  half  melted  among  them. 
Whereby  we  apprehend  they  were  not  of  the  meanest  car- 
cases, perfunctorily  fired,  as  sometimes  in  military,  and 
commonly  in  pestilence,  burnings ;  or  after  the  manner  of 
abject  corpses,  huddled  forth  and  carelessly  burnt,  without 
the  Esquiline  Port  at  Rome ;  which  was  an  affront  continued 
upon  Tiberius,  while  they  but  half  burnt  his  body,  and  in 
the  amphitheatre,  according  to  the  custom  in  notable  male- 
factors ;  whereas  Nero  seemed  not  so  much  to  fear  his  death 
as  that  his  head  should  be  cut  off  and  his  body  not  burnt 
entire. 

Some,  finding  many  fragments  of  skulls  in  these  urns, 
suspected  a  mixture  of  bones;  in  none  we  searched  was 
there  cause  of  such  conjecture,  though  sometimes  they  de- 
clined not  that  practice.  The  ashes  of  Domitian  were  min- 
gled with  those  of  Julia ;  of  Achilles  with  those  of  Patroclus. 
All  urns  contained  not  single  ashes ;  without  confused  burn- 
ings they  affectionately  compounded  their  bones;  passion- 
ately endeavoring  to  continue  their  living  unions.  And 
when  distance  of  death  denied  such  conjunctions,  unsatisfied 
affections  conceived  some  satisfaction  to  be  neighbors  in  the 
grave,  to  lie  urn  by  urn,  and  touch  but  in  their  names.  And 
many  were  so  curious  to  continue  their  living  relations,  that 
they  contrived  large  and  family  urns,  wherein  the  ashes  of 
their  nearest  friends  and  kindred  might  successively  be  re- 
ceived, at  least  some  parcels  thereof,  while  their  collateral 
memorials  lay  in  minor  vessels  about  them. 

Antiquity  held  too  light  thoughts  from  objects  of  mortal- 
ity, while  some  drew  provocatives  of  mirth  from  anatomies, 


220  BROWNE 

and  jugglers  showed  tricks  with  skeletons ;  when  fidd)  ,rs 
made  not  so  pleasant  mirth  as  fencers,  and  men  could  sit 
with  quiet  stomachs,  while  hanging  was  played  before  them. 
Old  considerations  made  few  mementos  by  skulls  and  bones 
upon  their  monuments.  In  the  Egyptian  obelisks  and  hiero- 
glyphical  figures  it  is  not  easy  to  meet  with  bones.  The 
sepulchral  lamps  speak  nothing  less  than  sepulture,  and  in 
their  literal  draughts  prove  often  obscene  and  antick  pieces. 
Where  we  find  D.  M.  it  is  obvious  to  meet  with  sacrificing 
pateras  and  vessels  of  libation  upon  old  sepulchral  monu- 
ments. In  the  Jewish  hypogaeum  and  subterranean  cell  at 
Rome,  was  little  observable  beside  the  variety  of  lamps  and 
frequent  draughts  of  the  holy  candlestick.  In  authentic 
draughts  of  Anthony  and  Jerome  we  meet  with  thigh  bones 
and  death's-heads;  but  the  cemeterial  cells  of  ancient  Chris- 
tians and  martyrs  were  filled  with  draughts  of  scripture 
stories ;  not  declining  the  flourishes  of  cypress,  palms,  and 
olive,  and  the  mystical  figures  of  peacocks,  doves,  and 
cocks;  but  iterately  affecting  the  portraits  of  Enoch,  Laza- 
rus, Jonas,  and  the  vision  of  Ezekiel,  as  hopeful  draughts, 
and  hinting  imagery  of  the  resurrection,  which  is  the  life 
of  the  grave,  and  sweetens  our  habitations  in  the  land  of 
moles  and  pismires. 

Gentile  inscriptions  precisely  delivered  the  extent  of 
men's  lives,  seldom  the  manner  of  their  deaths,  which  his- 
tory itself  so  often  leaves  obscure  in  the  records  of  memora- 
ble persons.  There  is  scarce  any  philosopher  but  dies  twice 
or  thrice  in  Laertius ;  nor  almost  any  life  without  two  or  three 
deaths  in  Plutarch ;  which  makes  the  tragical  ends  of  noble 
persons  more  favorably  resented  by  compassionate  readers 
who  find  some  relief  in  the  election  of  such  differences. 

The  certainty  of  death  is  attended  with  uncertainties,  in 
time,  manner,  places.  The  variety  of  monuments  hath 
often  obscured  true  graves ;  and  cenotaphs  confounded  sep- 
ulchres. For  beside  their  real  tombs,  many  have  found 
honorary  and  empty  sepulchres.  The  variety  of  Homer's 
monuments  made  him  of  various  countries.  Euripides  had 
his  tomb  in  [Attica],  but  his  sepulture  in  Macedonia.  And 
Severus  found  his  real  sepulchre  in  Rome,  but  his  empty 
grave  in  Gallia. 


HYDRIOTAPHIA  221 

He  that  lay  in  a  golden  urn  eminently  above  the  earth, 
was  not  like  to  find  the  quiet  of  his  bones.  Many  of  these 
urns  were  broke  by  a  vulgar  discoverer  in  hope  of  enclosed 
treasure.  The  ashes  of  Marcellus  were  lost  above  ground, 
upon  the  like  account.  Where  profit  hath  prompted,  no 
age  hath  wanted  such  miners ;  for  which  the  most  barbarous 
expilators  found  the  most  civil  rhetoric: — «Gold  once  out 
of  the  earth  is  no  more  due  unto  it; — what  was  unreasonably 
committed  to  the  ground,  is  reasonably  resumed  from  it ; — 
let  monuments  and  rick  fabrics,  not  riches,  adorn  men's 
ashes ; — the  commerce  of  the  living  is  not  to  be  transferred 
unto  the  dead ; — it  is  not  injustice  to  take  that  which  none 
complains  to  lose,  and  no  man  is  wronged  where  no  man  is 
possessor.)) 

What  virtue  yet  sleeps  in  this  terra  damnata  and  aged 
cinders,  were  petty  magic  to  experiment.  These  crumbling 
relics  and  long  fired  particles  superannuate  such  expecta- 
tions; bones,  hairs,  nails,  and  teeth  of  the  dead,  were  the 
treasures  of  old  sorcerers.  In  vain  we  revive  such  prac- 
tices ;  present  superstition  too  visibly  perpetuates  the  folly 
of  our  forefathers,  wherein  unto  old  observation  this  island 
was  so  complete,  that  it  might  have  instructed  Persia. 

Plato's  historian  of  the  other  world  lies  twelve  days  in- 
corrupted,  while  his  soul  was  viewing  the  large  stations  of 
the  dead.  How  to  keep  the  corpse  seven  days  from  corrup- 
tion by  anointing  and  washing,  without  exenteration,  were 
an  hazardable  piece  of  art,  in  our  choicest  practice.  How 
they  made  distinct  separation  of  bones  and  ashes  from  fiery 
admixture,  hath  found  no  historical  solution ;  though  they 
seemed  to  make  a  distinct  collection,  and  overlooked  not 
Pyrrhus  his  toe.  Some  provision  they  might  make  by  fic- 
tile vessels,  coverings,  tiles,  or  fiat  stones,  upon  and  about 
the  body  (and  in  the  same  field,  not  far  from  these  urns, 
many  stones  were  found  under  ground),  as  also  by  careful 
separation  of  extraneous  matter,  composing  and  raking  up 
the  burnt  bones  with  forks,  observable  in  that  notable  lamp 
of  Galvanus.  Marlianus,  who  had  the  sight  of  the  vas  ustri- 
num  or  vessel  wherein  they  burnt  the  dead,  found  in  the 
Esquiline  field  at  Rome,  might  have  afforded  clearer  solu- 
tion.    But  their  insatisfaction  herein  begat  that  remarkable 


332  BROWNE 

invention  in  the  funeral  pyres  of  some  princes,  by  incom- 
bustible sheets  made  with  a  texture  of  asbestos,  incremable 
flax,  or  salamander's  wool,  which  preserved  their  bones  and 
ashes  incommixed. 

How  the  bulk  of  a  man  should  sink  into  so  few  pounds  of 
bones  and  ashes,  may  seem  strange  unto  any  who  considers 
not  its  constitution,  and  how  slender  a  mass  will  remain 
upon  an  open  and  urging  fire  of  the  carnal  composition. 
Even  bones  themselves,  reduced  into  ashes,  do  abate  a  no- 
table proportion.  And  consisting  much  of  a  volatile  salt, 
when  that  is  fired  out,  make  a  light  kind  of  cinders.  Al- 
though their  bulk  be  disproportionable  to  their  weight,  when 
the  heavy  principle  of  salt  is  fired  out,  and  the  earth  almost 
only  remaineth;  observable  in  sallow,  which  makes  more 
ashes  than  oak,  and  discovers  the  common  fraud  of  selling 
ashes  by  measure,  and  not  by  ponderation. 

Some  bones  make  best  skeletons,  some  bodies  quick  and 
speediest  ashes.  Who  would  expect  a  quick  flame  from 
hydropical  Heraclitus?  The  poisoned  soldier  when  his  belly 
brake,  put  out  two  pyres  in  Plutarch.  But  in  the  plague  of 
Athens,  one  private  pyre  served  two  or  three  intruders; 
and  the  Saracens  burnt  in  large  heaps,  by  the  king  of  Cas- 
tile, showed  how  little  fuel  sufficeth.  Though  the  funeral 
pyre  of  Patroclus  took  up  an  hundred  foot,  a  piece  of  an  old 
boat  burnt  Pompey ;  and  if  the  burthen  of  Isaac  were  suf- 
ficient for  an  holocaust,  a  man  may  carry  his  own  pyre. 

From  animals  are  drawn  good  burning  lights,  and  good 
medicines  against  burning.  Though  the  seminal  humor 
seems  of  a  contrary  nature  to  fire,  yet  the  body  completed 
proves  a  combustible  lump,  wherein  fire  finds  flame  even 
from  bones,  and  some  fuel  almost  from  all  parts ;  though 
the  metropolis  of  humidity  seems  least  disposed  unto  it, 
which  might  render  the  skulls  of  these  urns  less  burned  than 
other  bones.  But  all  flies  or  sinks  before  fire  almost  in  all 
bodies :  when  the  common  ligament  is  dissolved,  the  atten- 
uable  parts  ascend,  the  rest  subside  in  coal,  calx,  or  ashes. 

To  burn  the  bones  of  the  king  of  Edom  for  lime,  seems  no 
irrational  ferity ;  but  to  drink  of  the  ashes  of  dead  relations, 
a  passionate  prodigality.  He  that  hath  the  ashes  of  his 
friend,  hath  an  everlasting  treasure ;  where  fire  taketh  leave, 


HYDRIOTAPHIA  223 

corruption  slowly  enters.  In  bones  well  burnt,  fire  makes  a 
wall  against  itself;  experimented  in  cupels,  and  tests  of 
metals,  which  consist  of  such  ingredients.  What  the  sun 
compoundeth,  fire  analyzeth,  not  transmuteth.  That  de- 
vouring agent  leaves  almost  always  a  morsel  for  the  earth, 
whereof  all  things  are  but  a  colony;  and  which,  if  time  per- 
mits, the  mother  element  will  have  in  their  primitive  mass 
again. 

He  that  looks  for  urns  and  old  sepulchral  relics,  must 
not  seek  them  in  the  ruins  of  temples,  where  no  religion 
anciently  placed  them.  These  were  found  in  a  field,  ac- 
cording to  ancient  custom,  in  noble  or  private  burial ;  the 
old  practice  of  the  Canaanites,  the  family  of  Abraham,  and 
the  burying-place  of  Joshua,  in  the  borders  of  his  possessions ; 
and  also  agreeable  unto  Roman  practice  to  bury  by  high- 
ways, whereby  their  monuments  were  under  eye ; — memo- 
rials of  themselves,  and  mementos  of  mortality  until  living 
passengers ;  whom  the  epitaphs  of  great  ones  were  fain  to 
beg  to  stay  and  look  upon  them, — a  language  though  some- 
times used,  not  so  proper  in  church  inscriptions.  The  sensi- 
ble rhetoric  of  the  dead,  to  exemplarity  of  good  life,  first 
admitted  the  bones  of  pious  men  and  martyrs  within  church 
walls,  which  in  succeeding  ages  crept  into  promiscuous  prac- 
tice: while  Constantine  was  peculiarly  favored  to  be  ad- 
mitted into  the  church  porch,  and  the  first  thus  buried  in 
England,  was  in  the  days  of  Cuthred. 

Christians  dispute  how  their  bodies  should  lie  in  the 
grave.  In  urnal  interment  they  clearly  escaped  this  con- 
troversy. Though  we  decline  the  religious  considerations, 
yet  in  cemeterial  and  narrower  burying-places,  to  avoid 
confusion  and  cross-position,  a  certain  posture  were  to  be 
admitted:  which  even  Pagan  civility  observed.  The  Per- 
sians lay  north  and  south ;  the  Megarians  and  Phoenicians 
placed  their  heads  to  the  east ;  the  Athenians,  some  think, 
toward  the  west,  which  Christians  still  retain.  And  Beda 
will  have  it  to  be  the  posture  of  our  Saviour.  That  he  was 
crucified  with  his  face  toward  the  west,  we  will  not  contend 
with  tradition  and  probable  account;  but  we  applaud  not  the 
hand  of  the  painter,  in  exalting  his  cross  so  high  above  those 
on  either  side :   since  hereof  we  find  no  authentic  account  in 


224 


BROWNE 


history,  and  even  the  crosses  found  by  Helena,  pretend  no 
such  distinction  from  longitude  or  dimension. 

To  be  gnawed  out  of  our  graves,  to  have  our  skulls  made 
drinking-bowls,  and  our  bones  turned  into  pipes,  to  delight 
and  sport  our  enemies,  are  tragical  abominations  escaped  in 
burning  burials. 

Urnal  interments  and  burnt  relics  lie  not  in  fear  of 
worms,  or  to  be  an  heritage  for  serpents.  In  carnal  sepul- 
ture, corruptions  seem  peculiar  unto  parts;  and  some  speak 
of  snakes  out  of  the  spinal  marrow.  But  while  we  suppose 
common  worms  in  graves,  'tis  not  easy  to  find  any  there ; 
few  in  churchyards  above  a  foot  deep,  fewer  or  none  in 
churches  though  in  fresh-decayed  bodies.  Teeth,  bones, 
and  hair,  give  the  most  lasting  defiance  to  corruption.  In 
an  hydropical  body,  ten  years  buried  in  the  churchyards, 
we  met  with  a  fat  concretion,  where  the  nitre  of  the  earth, 
and  the  salt  and  lixivious  liquor  of  the  body,  had  coagulated 
large  lumps  of  fat  into  the  consistence  of  the  hardest  Castile 
soap,  whereof  part  remaineth  with  us.  After  a  battle  with 
the  Persians,  the  Roman  corpses  decayed  in  few  days,  while 
the  Persian  bodies  remained  dry  and  uncorrupted.  Bodies 
in  the  same  ground  do  not  uniformly  dissolve,  nor  bones 
equally  moulder;  whereof  in  the  opprobrious  disease,  we 
expect  no  long  duration.  The  body  of  the  Marquis  of  Dor- 
set seemed  sound  and  handsomely  cere-clothed,  that  after 
seventy-eight  years  was  found  uncorrupted.  Common 
tombs  preserve  not  beyond  powder:  a  firmer  consistence 
and  compage  of  parts  might  be  expected  from  arefaction, 
deep  burial,  or  charcoal.  The  greatest  antiquities  of  mortal 
bodies  may  remain  in  putrefied  bones,  whereof,  though  we 
take  not  in  the  pillar  of  Lot's  wife,  or  metamorphosis  of 
Ortelius,  some  may  be  older  than  pyramids,  in  the  putrefied 
relics  of  the  general  inundation.  When  Alexander  opened 
the  tomb  of  Cyrus,  the  remaining  bones  discovered  his  pro- 
portion, whereof  urnal  fragments  afford  but  a  bad  conjec- 
ture, and  have  this  disadvantage  of  grave  interments,  that 
they  leave  us  ignorant  of  most  personal  discoveries.  For 
since  bones  afford  not  only  rectitude  and  stability  but  figure 
unto  the  body,  it  is  no  impossible  physiognomy  to  conjec- 
ture at  fleshy  appendencies,  and  after  what  shape  the  mus- 


HYDRIOTAPHIA  225 

clesand  carnous  parts  might  hang  in  their  full  consistencies. 
A  full-spread  cariola  shows  a  well-shaped  horse  behind; 
handsome  formed  skulls  give  some  analogy  to  fleshy  resem- 
blance. A  critical  view  of  bones  makes  a  good  distinction 
of  sexes.  Even  color  is  not  beyond  conjecture,  since  it  is 
hard  to  be  deceived  in  the  distinction  of  Negroes'  skulls. 
Dante's  characters  are  to  be  found  in  skulls  as  well  as  faces. 
Hercules  is  not  only  known  by  his  foot.  Other  parts  make 
out  their  comproportions  and  inferences  upon  whole  or 
parts.  And  since  the  dimensions  of  the  head  measure  the 
whole  body,  and  the  figure  thereof  gives  conjecture  of  the 
principal  faculties,  physiognomy  outlives  ourselves,  and 
ends  not  in  our  graves. 

Severe  contemplators,  observing  these  lasting  relics, 
may  think  them  good  monuments  of  persons  past,  little  ad- 
vantage to  future  beings;  and,  considering  that  power  which 
subdueth  all  things  unto  itself,  that  can  resume  the  scattered 
atoms,  or  identify  out  of  any  thing,  conceive  it  superfluous 
to  expect  a  resurrection  out  of  relics:  but  the  soul  subsist- 
ing, other  matter,  clothed  with  due  accidents,  may  salve  the 
individuality.  Yet  the  saints,  we  observe,  arose  from  graves 
and  monuments  about  the  holy  city.  Some  think  the  an- 
cient patriarchs  so  earnestly  desired  to  lay  their  bones  in 
Canaan,  as  hoping  to  make  a  part  of  that  resurrection ;  and, 
though  thirty  miles  from  Mount  Calvary,  at  least  to  lie  in 
that  region  which  should  produce  the  first  fruits  of  the 
dead.  And  if,  according  to  learned  conjecture,  the  bodies 
of  men  shall  rise  where  their  greatest  relics  remain,  many 
are  not  like  to  err  in  the  topography  of  their  resurrection, 
though  their  bones  or  bodies  be  after  translated  by  angels 
into  the  field  of  Ezekiel's  vision,  or  as  some  will  order  it, 
into  the  valley  of  judgment,  or  Jehosaphat. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

Christians  have  handsomely  glossed  the   deformity  of 
death  by  careful  consideration  of  the  body,  and  civil  rites 
which  take  off  brutal  terminations :    and  though  they  con- 
ceived all  reparable  by  a  resurrection,  cast  not  off  all  care 
i5 


220  BROWNE 

of  interment.  And  since  the  ashes  of  sacrifices  burnt  upon 
the  altar  of  God  were  carefully  carried  out  by  the  priests, 
and  deposed  in  a  clean  field ;  since  they  acknowledged  their 
bodies  to  be  the  lodging  of  Christ,  and  temples  of  the  Holy 
Ghost,  they  devolved  not  all  upon  the  sufficiency  of  soul- 
existence  ;  and  therefore  with  long  services  and  full  solemni- 
ties, concluded  their  last  exequies,  wherein  to  all  distinctions 
the  Greek  devotion  seems  most  pathetically  ceremonious. 

Christian  invention  hath  chiefly  driven  at  rites,  which 
speak  hopes  of  another  life,  and  hints  of  a  resurrection. 
And  if  the  ancient  Gentiles  held  not  the  immortality  of  their 
better  part,  and  some  subsistence  after  death,  in  several 
rites,  customs,  actions,  and  expressions,  they  contradicted 
their  own  opinions :  wherein  Democritus  went  high,  even  to 
the  thought  of  a  resurrection,  as  scoffingly  recorded  by 
Pliny.  What  can  be  more  express  than  the  expression  of 
Phocylides?  Or  who  would  expect  from  Lucretius  a  sen- 
tence of  Ecclesiastes?  Before  Plato  could  speak,  the  soul 
had  wings  in  Homer,  which  fell  not,  but  flew  out  of  the 
body  into  the  mansions  of  the  dead ;  who  also  observed  that 
handsome  distinction  of  Demas  and  Soma,  for  the  body  con- 
joined to  the  soul,  and  body  separated  from  it.  Lucian 
spoke  much  truth  in  jest,  when  he  said  that  part  of  Her- 
cules which  proceeded  from  Alcmena  perished,  that  from 
Jupiter  remained  immortal.  Thus  Socrates  was  content 
that  his  friends  should  bury  his  body,  so  they  would  not 
think  they  buried  Socrates;  and,  regarding  only  his  immor- 
tal part,  was  indifferent  to  be  burnt  or  buried.  From  such 
considerations,  Diogenes  might  contemn  sepulture,  and, 
being  satisfied  that  the  soul  could  not  perish,  grow  careless 
of  corporal  interment.  The  Stoics,  who  thought  the  souls 
of  wise  men  had  their  habitation  about  the  moon,  might 
make  slight  account  of  subterraneous  deposition;  whereas 
the  Pythagoreans  and  transcorporating  philosophers,  who 
were  to  be  often  buried,  held  great  care  of  their  interment. 
And  the  Platonics  rejected  not  a  due  care  of  the  grave, 
though  they  put  their  ashes  to  unreasonable  expectations,  in 
their  tedious  term  of  return  and  long  set  revolution. 

Men  have  lost  their  reason  in  nothing  so  much  as  their 
religion,  wherein  stones  and  clouts  make  martyrs;   and, 


HYDRIOTAPHIA  237 

since  the  religion  of  one  seems  madness  unto  another,  to 
afford  an  account  or  rational  of  old  rites  requires  no  rigid 
reader.  That  they  kindled  the  pyre  aversely,  or  turning 
their  face  from  it,  was  an  handsome  symbol  of  unwilling 
ministration.  That  they  washed  their  bones  with  wine  and 
milk;  that  the  mother  wrapped  them  in  linen,  and  dried 
them  in  her  bosom,  the  first  fostering  part  and  place  of  their 
nourishment ;  that  they  opened  their  eyes  towards  heaven 
before  they  kindled  the  fire,  as  the  place  of  their  hopes  or 
original,  were  no  improper  ceremonies.  Their  last  valedic- 
tion, thrice  uttered  by  the  attendants,  was  also  very  solemn, 
and  somewhat  answered  by  Christians,  who  thought  it  too 
little,  if  they  threw  not  the  earth  thrice  upon  the  interred 
body.  That,  in  strewing  their  tombs,  the  Romans  affected 
the  rose ;  the  Greeks  amaranthus  and  myrtle :  that  the  funeral 
pyre  consisted  of  sweet  fuel,  cypress,  fir,  larix,  yew,  and 
trees  perpetually  verdant,  lay  silent  expressions  of  their 
surviving  hopes.  Wherein  Christians,  who  deck  their  cof- 
fins with  bays,  have  found  a  more  elegant  emblem;  for  that 
tree,  seeming  dead,  will  restore  itself  from  the  root,  and  its 
dry  and  exsuccous  leaves  resume  their  verdure  again ;  which, 
if  we  mistake  not,  we  have  also  observed  in  furze.  Whether 
the  planting  of  yew  in  churchyards  hold  not  its  original  from 
ancient  funeral  rites,  or  as  an  emblem  of  resurrection,  from 
its  perpetual  verdure,  may  also  admit  conjecture. 

They  made  use  of  music  to  excite  or  quiet  the  affections 
of  their  friends,  according  to  different  harmonies.  But  the 
secret  and  symbolical  hint  was  the  harmonical  nature  of  the 
soul ;  which,  delivered  from  the  body,  went  again  to  enjoy 
the  primitive  harmony  of  heaven,  from  whence  it  first  de- 
scended ;  which,  according  to  its  progress  traced  by  antiq- 
uity, came  down  by  Cancer,  and  ascended  by  Capricornus. 

They  burnt  not  children  before  their  teeth  appeared,  as 
apprehending  their  bodies  too  tender  a  morsel  for  fire,  and 
that  their  gristly  bones  would  scarce  leave  separable  relics 
after  the  pyral  combustion.  That  they  kindled  not  fire  in 
their  houses  for  some  days  after  was  a  strict  memorial  of 
the  late  afflicting  fire.  And  mourning  without  hope,  they 
had  an  happy  fraud  against  excessive  lamentation,  by  a  com- 
mon opinion  that  deep  sorrows  disturb  their  ghosts. 


228  BROWNE 

That  they  buried  their  dead  on  their  backs,  or  in  a  supine 
position,  seems  agreeable  unto  profound  sleep,  and  common 
posture  of  dying ;  contrary  to  the  most  natural  way  of  birth ; 
nor  unlike  our  pendulous  posture,  in  the  doubtful  state  of 
the  womb.  Diogenes  was  singular,  who  preferred  a  prone 
situation  in  the  grave;  and  some  Christians  like  neither, 
who  decline  the  figure  of  rest,  and  make  choice  of  an  erect 
posture. 

That  they  carried  them  out  of  the  world  with  their  feet 
forward,  not  inconsonant  unto  reason,  as  contrary  unto  th? 
native  posture  of  man,  and  his  production  first  into  it ;  and 
also  agreeable  unto  their  opinions,  while  they  bid  adieu  unto 
the  world,  not  to  look  again  upon  it;  whereas  Mahometans 
who  think  to  return  to  a  delightful  life  again,  are  carried 
forth  with  their  heads  forward,  and  looking  toward  their 
houses. 

They  closed  their  eyes,  as  parts  which  first  die,  or  first 
discover  the  sad  effects  of  death.  But  their  iterated  clama- 
tions  to  excitate  their  dying  or  dead  friends,  or  revoke  them 
unto  life  again,  was  a  vanity  of  affection ;  as  not  presuma- 
bly ignorant  of  the  critical  tests  of  death,  by  apposition  of 
feathers,  glasses,  and,  reflection  of  figures,  which  dead  eyes 
represent  not :  which,  however  not  strictly  verifiable  in  fresh 
and  warm  cadavers,  could  hardly  elude  the  test,  in  corpses 
of  four  or  five  days. 

That  they  sucked  in  the  last  breath  of  their  expiring 
friends  was  surely  a  practice  of  no  medical  institution,  but 
a  loose  opinion  that  the  soul  passed  out  that  way,  and  a 
fondness  of  affection,  from  some  Pythagorical  foundation, 
that  the  spirit  of  one  body  passed  into  another,  which  they 
wished  might  be  their  own. 

That  they  poured  oil  upon  the  pyre,  was  a  tolerable  prac- 
tice, while  the  intention  rested  in  facilitating  the  accension. 
But  to  place  good  omens  in  the  quick  and  speedy  burning, 
to  sacrifice  unto  the  winds  for  a  dispatch  in  this  office,  was  a 
low  form  of  superstition. 

The  archimime,  or  jester,  attending  the  funeral  train,  and 
imitating  the  speeches,  gesture,  and  manners  of  the  de- 
ceased, was  too  light  for  such  solemnities,  contradicting 
their  funeral  orations  and  doleful  rites  of  the  grave. 


HYDRIOTAPHIA 


229 


That  they  buried  a  piece  of  money  with  them  as  a  fee  of 
the  Elysian  ferryman,  was  a  practice  full  of  folly.  But  the 
ancient  custom  of  placing  coins  in  considerable  urns,  and 
the  present  practice  of  burying  medals  in  the  noble  founda- 
tions of  Europe,  are  laudable  ways  of  historical  discoveries, 
in  actions,  persons,  chronologies ;  and  posterity  will  applaud 
them. 

We  examine  not  the  old  laws  of  sepulture,  exempting  cer- 
tain persons  from  burial  or  burning.  But  hereby  we  appre- 
hend that  these  were  not  the  bones  of  persons  planet-struck 
or  burnt  with  fire  from  heaven;  no  relics  of  traitors  to 
their  country,  self-killers,  or  sacrilegious  malefactors ;  per- 
sons in  old  apprehension  unworthy  of  the  earth ;  condemned 
unto  the  Tartarus  of  hell,  and  bottomless  pit  of  Plato,  from 
whence  there  was  no  redemption. 

Nor  were  only  many  customs  questionable  in  order  to 
their  obsequies,  but  also  sundry  practices,  fictions,  and  con- 
ceptions, discordant  or  obscure,  of  their  state  and  future 
beings.  Whether  unto  eight  or  ten  bodies  of  men  to  add 
one  of  a  woman,  as  being  more  inflammable,  and  unctuously 
constituted  for  the  better  pyral  combustion,  were  any  ra- 
tional practice;  or  whether  the  complaint  of  Periander's 
wife  be  tolerable,  that  wanting  her  funeral  burning,  she 
suffered  intolerable  cold  in  hell,  according  to  the  constitu- 
tion of  the  infernal  house  of  Plato,  wherein  cold  makes  a 
great  part  of  their  tortures,  it  cannot  pass  without  some 
question. 

Why  the  female  ghosts  appear  unto  Ulysses,  before  the 
heroes  and  masculine  spirits, — why  the  Psyche  or  soul  of 
Tiresias  is  of  the  masculine  gender,  who,  being  blind  on 
earth,  sees  more  than  all  the  rest  in  hell ;  why  the  funeral 
suppers  consisted  of  eggs,  beans,  smallage,  and  lettuce,  since 
the  dead  are  made  to  eat  asphodels  about  the  Elysian 
meadows, — why,  since  there  is  no  sacrifice  acceptable,  nor 
any  propitiation  for  the  covenant  of  the  grave,  men  set  up 
the  deity  of  Morta,  and  fruitlessly  adored  divinities  without 
ears,  it  cannot  escape  some  doubt. 

The  dead  seem  all  alive  in  the  human  Hades  of  Homer, 
yet  cannot  well  speak,  prophesy,  or  know  the  living,  except 
they  drink  blood,  wherein  is  the  life  of  man.     And  there- 


23o  BROWNE 

fore  the  souls  of  Penelope's  paramours,  conducted  by  Mer- 
cury, chirped  like  bats,  and  those  which  followed  Hercules, 
made  a  noise  but  like  a  flock  of  birds. 

The  departed  spirits  know  things  past  and  to  come ;  yet 
are  ignorant  of  things  present.  Agamemnon  foretells  what 
should  happen  unto  Ulysses ;  yet  ignorantly  inquires  what 
is  become  of  his  own  son.  The  ghosts  are  afraid  of  swords 
in  Homer ;  yet  Sibylla  tells  ^Eneas  in  Virgil,  the  thin  habit 
of  spirits  was  beyond  the  force  of  weapons.  The  spirits 
put  off  their  malice  with  their  bodies,  and  Csesar  and  Pompey 
accord  in  Latin  hell;  yet  Ajax,  in  Homer,  endures  not  a 
conference  with  Ulysses:  and  Deiphobus  appears  all  man- 
gled in  Virgil's  ghosts,  yet  we  meet  with  perfect  shadows 
among  the  wounded  ghosts  of  Homer. 

Since  Charon  in  Lucian  applauds  his  condition  among  the 
dead,  whether  it  be  handsomely  said  of  Achilles,  that  living 
contemner  of  death,  that  he  had  rather  be  a  ploughman's 
servant,  than  emperor  of  the  dead?  How  Hercules  his  soul 
is  in  hell,  and  yet  in  heaven ;  and  Julius  his  soul  in  a  star, 
yet  seen  by  ^neas  in  hell? — except  the  ghosts  were  but 
images  and  shadows  of  the  soul,  received  in  higher  mansions, 
according  to  the  ancient  division  of  body,  soul,  and  image,  01 
simulacrum  of  them  both.  The  particulars  of  future  beings 
must  needs  be  dark  unto  ancient  theories,  which  Christian 
philosophy  yet  determines  but  in  a  cloud  of  opinions.  A 
dialogue  between  two  infants  in  the  womb  concerning  the 
state  of  this  world,  might  handsomely  illustrate  our  igno- 
rance of  the  next,  whereof  methinks  we  yet  discourse  in 
Plato's  den,  and  are  but  embryon  philosophers. 

Pythagoras  escapes  in  the  fabulous  Hell  of  Dante,  among 
that  swarm  of  philosophers,  wherein  whilst  we  meet  with 
Plato  and  Socrates,  Cato  is  to  be  found  in  no  lower  place 
than  purgatory.  Among  all  the  set,  Epicurus  is  most  con- 
siderable, whom  men  make  honest  without  an  Elysium,  who 
contemned  life  without  encouragement  of  immortality,  and 
making  nothing  after  death,  yet  made  nothing  of  the  king 
of  terrors. 

Were  the  happiness  of  the  next  world  as  closely  appre- 
hended as  the  felicities  of  this,  it  were  a  martyrdom  to  live ; 
and  unto  such  as  consider  none  hereafter,  it  must  be  more 


HYDRIOTAPHIA  231 

than  death  to  die,  which  makes  us  amazed  at  those  audaci- 
ties that  durst  be  nothing  and  return  into  their  chaos  again. 
Certainly  such  spirits  as  could  contemn  death,  when  they 
expected  no  better  being  after,  would  have  scorned  to  live, 
had  they  known  any.  And  therefore  we  applaud  not  the 
judgment  of  Machiavel,  that  Christianity  makes  men  cow- 
ards, or  that  with  the  confidence  of  but  half-dying,  the  de- 
spised virtues  of  patience  and  humility  have  abased  the 
spirits  of  men,  which  Pagan  principles  exalted ;  but  rather 
regulated  the  wildness  of  audacities,  in  the  attempts, 
grounds,  and  eternal  sequels  of  death ;  wherein  men  of  the 
boldest  spirits  are  often  prodigiously  temerarious.  Nor  can 
we  extenuate  the  valor  of  ancient  martyrs,  who  contemned 
death  in  the  uncomfortable  scene  of  their  lives,  and  in  their 
decrepit  martyrdoms  did  probably  lose  not  many  months  of 
their  days,  or  parted  with  life  when  it  was  scarce  worth  the 
living.  For  (beside  that  long  time  past  holds  no  considera- 
tion unto  a  slender  time  to  come)  they  had  no  small  disad- 
vantage from  the  constitution  of  old  age,  which  naturally 
makes  men  fearful ;  complexionally  superannuated  from  the 
bold  and  courageous  thoughts  of  youth  and  fervent  years. 
But  the  contempt  of  death  from  corporal  animosity,  pro- 
moteth  not  our  felicity.  They  may  sit  in  the  orchestra, 
and  noblest  seats  of  heaven,  who  have  held  up  shaking 
hands  in  the  fire,  and  humanly  contended  for  glory. 

Meanwhile  Epicurus  lies  deep  in  Dante's  Hell,  wherein 
we  meet  with  tombs  enclosing  souls  which  denied  their  im- 
mortalities. But  whether  the  virtuous  heathen,  who  lived 
better  than  he  spake,  or  erring  in  the  principles  of  himself, 
yet  lived  above  philosophers  of  more  specious  maxims,  lie 
so  deep  as  he  is  placed,  at  least  so  low  as  not  to  rise  against 
Christians,  who  believing  or  knowing  that  truth,  have  last- 
ingly denied  it  in  their  practice  and  conversation — were  a 
query  too  sad  to  insist  on. 

But  all  or  most  apprehensions  rested  in  opinions  of  some 
future  being,  which,  ignorantly  or  coldly  believed,  begat 
those  perverted  conceptions,  ceremonies,  sayings,  which 
Christians  pity  or  laugh  at.  Happy  are  they  which  live  not 
in  that  disadvantage  of  time,  when  men  could  say  little  for 
futurity,  but  from  reason :   whereby  the  noblest  minds  fell 


232  BROWNE 

often  upon  doubtful  deaths,  and  melancholy  dissolutions. 
With  these  hopes,  Socrates  warmed  his  doubtful  spirits 
against  that  cold  potion ;  and  Cato,  before  he  durst  give  the 
fatal  stroke,  spent  part  of  the  night  in  reading  the  Immor- 
tality of  Plato,  thereby  confirming  his  wavering  hand  untc 
the  animosity  of  that  attempt. 

It  is  the  heaviest  stone  that  melancholy  can  throw  at  a 
man,  to  tell  him  he  is  at  the  end  of  his  nature ;  or  that  there 
is  no  further  state  to  come,  unto  which  this  seems  progres- 
sional,  and  otherwise  made  in  vain.  Without  this  accom- 
plishment, the  natural  expectation  and  desire  of  such  a  state, 
were  but  a  fallacy  in  nature ;  unsatisfied  considerators  would 
quarrel  the  justice  of  their  constitutions,  and  rest  content 
that  Adam  had  fallen  lower ;  whereby,  by  knowing  no  other 
original,  and  deeper  ignorance  of  themselves,  they  might 
have  enjoyed  the  happiness  of  inferior  creatures,  who  in 
tranquillity  possess  their  constitutions,  as  having  not  the 
apprehension  to  deplore  their  own  natures,  and,  being 
framed  below  the  circumference  of  these  hopes,  or  cognition 
of  better  being,  the  wisdom  of  God  hath  necessitated  their 
contentment :  but  the  superior  ingredient  and  obscured  part 
of  ourselves,  whereto  all  present  felicities  afford  no  resting 
contentment,  will  be  able  at  last  to  tell  us,  we  are  more  than 
our  present  selves,  and  evacuate  such  hopes  in  the  fruition 
of  their  own  accomplishments. 


CHAPTER  V. 

Now  since  these  dead  bones  have  already  outlasted  the 
living  ones  of  Methuselah  and  in  a  yard  under  ground,  and 
thin  walls  of  clay,  outworn  all  the  strong  and  specious 
buildings  above  it,  and  quietly  rested  under  the  drums  and 
tramplings  of  three  conquests:  what  prince  can  promise 
such  diuturnity  unto  his  relics,  or  might  not  gladly  say, 

"Sic  ego  componi  versus  in  ossa  velim  "? 

Time,  which  antiquates  antiquities,  and  hath  an  art  to  make 
dust  of  all  things,  hath  yet  spared  these  minor  monuments. 
In  vain  we  hope  to  be  known  by  open  and  visible  conserva- 


HYDRIOTAPHIA  233 

tories,  when  to  be  unknown  was  the  means  of  their  continu- 
ation, and  obscurity  their  protection.  If  they  died  by  vio- 
lent hands,  and  were  thrust  into  their  urns,  these  bones 
become  considerable,  and  some  old  philosophers  would  honor 
them,  whose  souls  they  conceived  most  pure,  which  were 
thus  snatched  from  their  bodies,  and  to  retain  a  stronger 
propension  unto  them ;  whereas  they  weariedly  left  a  lan- 
guishing- corpse,  and  with  faint  desires  of  reunion.  If  they 
fell  by  long  and  aged  decay,  yet  wrapt  up  in  the  bundle  of 
time,  they  fall  into  indistinction,  and  make  but  one  blot 
with  infants.  If  we  begin  to  die  when  we  live,  and  long 
life  be  but  a  prolongation  of  death,  our  life  is  a  sad  compo- 
sition ;  we  live  with  death,  and  die  not  in  a  moment.  How 
many  pulses  made  up  the  life  of  Methuselah,  were  work  for 
Archimedes :  common  counters  sum  up  the  life  of  Moses  his 
man.  Our  days  become  considerable,  like  petty  sums,  by 
minute  accumulations;  where  numerous  fractions  make  up 
but  small  round  numbers;  and  our  days  of  a  span  long, 
make  not  one  little  finger. 

If  the  nearness  of  our  last  necessity  brought  a  nearer  con- 
formity into  it,  there  were  a  happiness  in  hoary  hairs,  and 
no  calamity  in  half-senses.  But  the  long  habit  of  living 
indisposeth  us  for  dying;  when  avarice  makes  us  the  sport 
of  death,  when  even  David  grew  politicly  cruel,  and  Solo- 
mon could  hardly  be  said  to  be  the  wisest  of  men.  But 
many  are  too  early  old,  and  before  the  date  of  age.  Ad- 
versity stretcheth  our  days,  misery  makes  Alcmena's  nights, 
and  time  hath  no  wings  unto  it.  But  the  most  tedious  being 
is  that  which  can  unwish  itself,  content  to  be  nothing,  or 
never  to  have  been,  which  was  beyond  the  malcontent  of 
Job,  who  cursed  not  the  day  of  his  life,  but  his  nativity; 
content  to  have  so  far  been,  as  to  have  a  title  to  future 
being,  although  he  had  lived  here  but  in  an  hidden  state  of 
life,  and  as  it  were  an  abortion. 

What  song  the  Syrens  sang,  or  what  name  Achilles  as- 
sumed when  he  hid  himself  among  women,  though  puzzling 
questions,  are  not  beyond  all  conjecture.  What  time  the 
persons  of  these  ossuaries  entered  the  famous  nations  of  the 
dead,  and  slept  with  princes  and  counsellors,  might  admit  a 
wide   solution.     But  who  were  the  proprietaries  of  these 


234 


BROWNE 


bones,  or  what  bodies  these  ashes  made  up,  were  a  question 
above  antiquarism ;  not  to  be  resolved  by  man,  nor  easily 
perhaps  by  spirits,  except  we  consult  the  provincial  guar- 
dians, or  tutelary  observators.  Had  they  made  as  good 
provision  for  their  names,  as  they  have  done  for  their  rel- 
ics, they  had  not  so  grossly  erred  in  the  art  of  perpetua- 
tion. But  to  subsist  in  bones,  and  be  but  pyramidally 
extant,  is  a  fallacy  in  duration.  Vain  ashes  which  in  the 
oblivion  of  names,  persons,  times,  and  sexes,  have  found 
unto  themselves  a  fruitless  continuation,  and  only  arise  unto 
late  posterity,  as  emblems  of  mortal  vanities,  antidotes 
against  pride,  vain-glory,  and  madding  vices.  Pagan  vain- 
glories which  thought  the  world  might  last  for  ever,  had 
encouragement  for  ambition ;  and,  finding  no  Atropos  unto 
the  immortality  of  their  names,  were  never  damped  with  the 
necessity  of  oblivion.  Even  old  ambitions  had  the  advan- 
tage of  ours,  in  the  attempts  of  their  vain-glories,  who  act- 
ing early,  and  before  the  probable  meridian  of  time,  have 
by  this  time  found  great  accomplishment  of  their  designs, 
whereby  the  ancient  heroes  have  already  outlasted  their 
monuments  and  mechanical  preservations.  But  in  this  lat- 
ter scene  of  time,  we  cannot  expect  such  mummies  unto  our 
memories,  when  ambition  may  fear  the  prophecy  of  Elias, 
and  Charles  the  Fifth  can  never  hope  to  live  within  two 
Methuselahs  of  Hector. 

And  therefore,  restless  unquiet  for  the  diuternity  of  our 
memories  unto  present  considerations  seems  a  vanity  almost 
out  of  date,  and  superannuated  piece  of  folly.  We  cannot 
hope  to  live  so  long  in  our  names,  as  some  have  done  in 
their  persons.  One  face  of  Janus  holds  no  proportion  unto 
the  other.  'Tis  too  late  to  be  ambitious.  The  great  muta- 
tions of  the  world  are  acted,  or  time  may  be  too  short  for 
our  designs.  To  extend  our  memories  by  monuments, 
whose  death  we  daily  pray  for,  and  whose  duration  we  can- 
not hope,  without  injury  to  our  expectations  in  the  advent 
of  the  last  day,  were  a  contradiction  to  our  beliefs.  We 
whose  generations  are  ordained  in  this  setting  part  of  time, 
are  providentially  taken  off  from  such  imaginations ;  and, 
being  necessitated  to  eye  the  remaining  particle  of  futurity, 
are  naturally  constituted  unto  thoughts  of  the  next  world, 


HYDRIOTAPHIA  235 

and  cannot  excusably  decline  the  consideration  of  that  dura- 
tion, which  maketh  pyramids  pillars  of  snow,  and  all  that's 
past  a  moment. 

Circles  and  right  lines  limit  and  close  all  bodies,  and  the 
mortal  right-lined  circle  must  conclude  and  shut  up  all. 
There  is  no  antidote  against  the  opium  of  time,  which  tem- 
porally considereth  all  things:  our  fathers  find  their  graves 
in  our  short  memories,  and  sadly  tell  us  how  we  may  be 
buried  in  our  survivors.  Gravestones  tell  truth  scarce  forty 
years.  Generations  pass  while  some  trees  stand,  and  old 
families  last  not  three  oaks.  To  be  read  by  bare  inscrip- 
tions like  many  in  Gruter,  to  hope  for  eternity  by  enigmati- 
cal epithets  or  first  letters  of  our  names,  to  be  studied  by 
antiquaries,  who  we  were,  and  have  new  names  given  us 
like  many  of  the  mummies,  are  cold  consolations  unto  the 
students  of  perpetuity,  even  by  everlasting  languages. 

To  be  content  that  times  to  come  should  only  know  there 
was  such  a  man,  not  caring  whether  they  knew  more  of 
him,  was  a  frigid  ambition  in  Cardan ;  disparaging  his  horo- 
scopical  inclination  and  judgment  of  himself.  Who  cares 
to  subsist  like  Hippocrates'  patients,  or  Achilles'  horses  in 
Homer,  under  naked  nominations,  without  deserts  and  noble 
acts,  which  are  the  balsam  of  our  memories,  the  entelechia 
and  soul  of  our  subsistences?  To  be  nameless  in  worthy 
deeds,  exceeds  an  infamous  history.  The  Canaanitish 
woman  lives  more  happily  without  a  name,  than  Herodias 
with  one.  And  who  had  not  rather  been  the  good  thief 
than  Pilate? 

But  the  iniquity  of  oblivion  blindly  scattereth  her  poppy, 
and  deals  with  the  memory  of  men  without  distinction  to 
merit  of  perpetuity.  Who  can  but  pity  the  founder  of  the 
pyramids?  Herostratus  lives  that  burnt  the  temple  of 
Diana,  he  is  almost  lost  that  built  it.  Time  hath  spared  the 
epitaph  of  Adrian's  horse,  confounded  that  of  himself.  In 
vain  we  compute  our  felicities  by  the  advantage  of  our  good 
names,  since  bad  have  equal  durations,  and  Thersites  is  like 
to  live  as  long  as  Agamemnon.  Who  knows  whether  the 
best  of  men  be  known,  or  whether  there  be  not  more  re- 
markable persons  forgot,  than  any  that  stand  remembered 
in  the  known  account  of  time?    Without  the  favor  of  the 


236  BROWNE 

everlasting-  register,  the  first  man  had  been  as  unknown  as 
the  last,  and  Methuselah's  long  life  had  been  his  only 
chronicle. 

Oblivion  is  not  to  be  hired.  The  greater  part  must  be 
content  to  be  as  though  they  had  not  been,  to  be  found  in 
the  register  of  God,  not  in  the  record  of  man.  Twenty- 
seven  names  make  up  the  first  story,  and  the  recorded  names 
ever  since  contain  not  one  living  century.  The  number  of 
the  dead  long  exceedeth  all  that  shall  live.  The  night  of 
time  far  surpasseth  the  day,  and  who  knows  when  was  the 
equinox?  Every  hour  adds  unto  that  current  arithmetic, 
which  scarce  stands  one  moment.  And  since  death  must  be 
the  Lucina  of  life,  and  even  Pagans  could  doubt,  whether 
thus  to  live  were  to  die ;  since  our  longest  sun  sets  at  right 
descensions,  and  makes  but  winter  arches,  and  therefore  it 
cannot  be  long  before  we  lie  down  in  darkness,  and  have 
our  light  in  ashes ;  since  the  brother  of  death  daily  haunts 
us  with  dying  mementos,  and  time  that  grows  old  in  itself, 
bids  us  hope  no  long  duration ; — diuturnity  is  a  dream  and 
folly  of  expectation. 

Darkness  and  light  divide  the  course  of  time,  and  oblivion 
shares  with  memory  a  great  part  even  of  our  living  beings ; 
we  slightly  remember  our  felicities,  and  the  smartest  strokes 
of  affliction  leave  but  short  smart  upon  us.  Sense  endureth 
no  extremities,  and  sorrows  destroy  us  or  themselves.  To 
weep  into  stones  are  fables.  Afflictions  induce  callosities ; 
miseries  are  slippery,  or  fall  like  snow  upon  us,  which  not- 
withstanding is  no  unhappy  stupidity.  To  be  ignorant  of 
evils  to  come,  and  forgetful  of  evils  past,  is  a  merciful  pro- 
vision in  nature,  whereby  we  digest  the  mixture  of  our  few 
and  evil  days,  and,  our  delivered  senses  not  relapsing  into 
cutting  remembrances,  our  sorrows  are  not  kept  raw  by  the 
edge  of  repetitions.  A  great  part  of  antiquity  contented 
their  hopes  of  subsistency  with  a  transmigration  of  their 
souls, — a  good  way  to  continue  their  memories,  while  hav- 
ing the  advantage  of  plural  successions,  they  could  not  but 
act  something  remarkable  in  such  variety  of  beings,  and 
enjoying  the  fame  of  their  passed  selves,  make  accumula- 
tion of  glory  unto  their  last  durations.  Others,  rather  than 
be  lost  in  the  uncomfortable  night  of  nothing,  were  content 


HYDRIOTAPHIA  237 

to  recede  into  the  common  being,  and  make  one  particle  of 
the  public  soul  of  all  things,  which  was  no  more  than  to  re- 
turn into  their  unknown  and  divine  original  again.  Egyp- 
tian ingenuity  was  more  unsatisfied,  contriving  their  bodies 
in  sweet  consistencies,  to  attend  the  return  of  their  souls. 
But  all  was  vanity,  feeding  the  wind,  and  folly.  The  Egyp- 
tian mummies,  which  Camb)'ses  or  time  hath  spared,  avarice 
now  consumeth.  Mummy  is  become  merchandise,  Mizraim 
cures  wounds,  and  Pharaoh  is  sold  for  balsams. 

In  vain  do  individuals  hope  for  immortality,  or  any  patent 
from  oblivion,  in  preservations  below  the  moon ;  men  have 
been  deceived  even  in  their  flatteries  above  the  sun,  and 
studied  conceits  to  perpetuate  their  names  in  heaven.  The 
various  cosmography  of  that  part  hath  already  varied  the 
names  of  contrived  constellations ;  Nimrod  is  lost  in  Orion, 
and  Osyris  in  the  Dog-star.  While  we  look  for  incorruption 
in  the  heavens,  we  find  they  are  but  like  the  earth ; — dura- 
ble in  their  main  bodies,  alterable  in  their  parts ;  whereof, 
beside  comets  and  new  stars,  perspectives  begin  to  tell  tales, 
and  the  spots  that  wander  about  the  sun,  with  Phaeton's 
favor,  would  make  clear  conviction. 

There  is  nothing  strictly  immortal,  but  immortality. 
Whatever  hath  no  beginning,  may  be  confident  of  no  end 
(all  others  have  a  dependent  being  and  within  the  reach  of 
destruction) ;  which  is  the  peculiar  of  that  necessary  Es- 
sence that  cannot  destroy  itself;  and  the  highest  strain  of 
omnipotency,  to  be  so  powerfully  constituted  as  not  to  suffer 
even  from  the  power  of  itself.  But  the  sufficiency  of  Chris- 
tian immortality  frustrates  all  earthly  glory,  and  the  quality 
of  either  state  after  death,  makes  a  folly  of  posthumous 
memory.  God  who  can  only  destroy  our  souls,  and  hath 
assured  our  resurrection,  either  of  our  bodies  or  names  hath 
directly  promised  no  duration.  Wherein  there  is  so  much 
of  chance,  that  the  boldest  expectants  have  found  unhappy 
frustration ;  and  to  hold  long  subsistence,  seems  but  a  scape 
in  oblivion.  But  man  is  a  noble  animal,  splendid  in  ashes, 
and  pompous  in  the  grave,  solemnizing  nativities  and  deaths 
with  equal  lustre,  nor  omitting  ceremonies  of  bravery  in  the 
infamy  of  his  nature. 

Life  is  a  pure  flame,  and  we  live  by  an  invisible  sun 


338  BROWNE 

within  us.  A  small  fire  sufficeth  for  life,  great  flames  seemed 
too  little  after  death,  while  men  vainly  affected  precious 
pyres,  and  to  burn  like  Sardanapalus ;  but  the  wisdom  of 
funeral  laws  found  the  folly  of  prodigal  blazes,  and  reduced 
undoing  fires  unto  the  rule  of  sober  obsequies,  wherein  few 
could  be  so  mean  as  not  to  provide  wood,  pitch,  a  mourner, 
and  an  urn. 

Five  languages  secured  not  the  epitaph  of  Gordianus. 
The  man  of  God  lives  longer  without  a  tomb,  than  any  by 
one,  invisibly  interred  by  angels,  and  adjudged  to  obscurity, 
though  not  without  some  marks  directing  human  discovery. 
Enoch  and  Elias,  without  either  tomb  or  burial,  in  an  anom- 
alous state  of  being,  are  the  great  examples  of  perpetuity, 
in  their  long  and  living  memory,  in  strict  account  being 
still  on  this  side  death,  and  having  a  late  part  yet  to  act 
upon  this  stage  of  earth.  If  in  the  decretory  term  of  the 
world,  we  shall  not  all  die  but  be  changed,  according  to  re- 
ceived translation,  the  last  day  will  make  but  few  graves ;  at 
least  quick  resurrections  will  anticipate  lasting  sepultures. 
Some  graves  will  be  opened  before  they  be  quite  closed,  and 
Lazarus  be  no  wonder.  When  many  that  feared  to  die, 
shall  groan  that  they  can  die  but  once,  the  dismal  state  is 
the  second  and  living  death,  when  life  puts  despair  on  the 
damned;  when  men  shall  wish  the  coverings  of  mountains, 
not  of  monuments,  and  annihilations  shall  be  courted. 

While  some  have  studied  monuments,  others  have  studi- 
ously declined  them,  and  some  have  been  so  vainly  boister- 
ous, that  they  durst  not  acknowledge  their  graves ;  wherein 
Alaricus  seems  most  subtle,  who  had  a  river  turned  to  hide 
his  bones  at  the  bottom.  Even  Sylla,  that  thought  himself 
safe  in  his  urn,  could  not  prevent  revenging  tongues,  and 
stones  thrown  at  his  monument.  Happy  are  they  whom 
privacy  makes  innocent,  who  deal  so  with  men  in  this  world, 
that  they  are  not  afraid  to  meet  them  in  the  next;  who, 
when  they  die,  make  no  commotion  among  the  dead,  and 
are  not  touched  with  that  poetical  taunt  of  Isaiah. 

Pyramids,  arches,  obelisks,  were  but  the  irregularities  of 
vain-glory,  and  wild  enormities  of  ancient  magnanimity. 
But  the  most  magnanimous  resolution  rests  in  the  Christian 
religion,  which  trampleth  upon  pride,  and  sits  on  the  neck 


HYDRIOTAPHIA  239 

of  ambition,  humbly  pursuing  that  infallible  perpetuity, 
unto  which  all  others  must  diminish  their  diameters,  and  be 
poorly  seen  in  angles  of  contingency. 

Pious  spirits  who  passed  their  days  in  raptures  of  futurity, 
made  little  more  of  this  world,  than  the  world  that  was  be- 
fore it,  while  they  lay  obscure  in  the  chaos  of  pre-ordination, 
and  night  of  their  fore-beings.  And  if  any  have  been  so 
happy  as  truly  to  understand  Christian  annihilation,  ecsta- 
cies,  exolution,  liquefaction,  transformation,  the  kiss  of  the 
spouse,  gustation  of  God,  and  ingression  into  the  divine 
shadow,  they  have  already  had  an  handsome  anticipation  of 
heaven ;  the  glory  of  the  world  is  surely  over,  and  the  earth 
in  ashes  unto  them. 

To  subsist  in  lasting  monuments,  to  live  in  their  produc- 
tions, to  exist  in  their  names  and  predicament  of  chimseras, 
was  large  satisfaction  unto  old  expectations,  and  made  one 
part  of  their  Elysiums.  But  all  this  is  nothing  in  the  meta- 
physics of  true  belief.  To  live  indeed,  is  to  be  again  our- 
selves, which  being  not  only  an  hope,  but  an  evidence  in 
noble  believers,  'tis  all  one  to  lie  in  St.  Innocents'  church- 
yard, as  in  the  sands  of  Egypt.  Ready  to  be  any  thing,  in 
the  ecstasy  of  being  ever,  and  as  content  with  six  foot  as 
the  moles  of  Adrianus. 


THE    PIT    OF    LAW 


BY 


JOHN  ARBUTHNOT 


16 


241 


JOHN  ARBUTHNOT 


If  Arbuthnot's  amusing  satire  is  not  so  widely  read  as  his  friend 
Swift's  "Gulliver,"  it  is  not  because  of  any  inferiority  in  the  writer's 
wit.  Both  Swift  and  Pope  have  left  on  record  their  hearty  tribute  to 
the  Scotchman's  wit  and  drollery.  Pope  puts  it  that  but  for  Arbuth- 
not's skilled  doctoring  (he  was  a  physician)  and  genial  inspiration  the 
world  would  have  missed  "many  an  idle  song,"  and  Swift  wrote,  "If 
there  were  a  dozen  Arbuthnots  in  the  world,  I  would  burn  'Gulliver's 
Travels."* 

The  merry  doctor  was  a  lucky  man.  By  happy  chance  he  was  on 
hand  when  Queen  Anne's  husband  needed  prompt  treatment.  His 
success  won  him  the  appointment  of  Physician  Extraordinary  to  the 
Queen,  which  was  followed  four  years  later  by  promotion  to  the  rank 
of  Ordinary.  Other  honors  followed,  and  he  was  in  the  height  of  his 
popularity  when  the  "  History  of  John  Bull "  appeared.  The  first  and 
most  valuable  portion  of  the  work  was  entitled  "  Law  is  a  Bottomless 
Pit,"  and  is  here  reprinted. 

It  is  a  long  time  since  Queen  Anne  died,  and  although  the  style  and 
title — Duke  of  Marlborough — have  of  recent  years  figured  prominently 
in  the  newspapers,  few  except  those  familiar  with  the  wars  and  politics 
in  which  John  Churchill,  Duke  of  Marlborough,  was  so  conspicuous 
have  sufficient  acquaintance  with  the  questions  then  at  issue  fully  to 
appreciate  the  points  in  this  satirical  allegory. 

Nevertheless,  its  humorous  story  and  caustic  wit  are  still  enjoyable, 
and  it  is  easy  to  follow  the  shafts  to  their  mark.  In  1712,  when  the 
first  part  was  issued,  the  Tories  were  striving  to  bring  about  the  Peace 
of  Utrecht.  Arbuthnot's  main  object  was  to  minimize  the  influence  of 
Marlborough  by  ridiculing  him  in  the  guise  of  Humphry  Hocus,  the 
lawyer.  The  pit  which  is  bottomless  is  war,  here  spelled  law.  Eng- 
land for  the  first  time  figures  as  John  Bull  and  Holland  is  Nicholas 
Frog. 

Arbuthnot  was  born  in  1667  and  died  in  1735.  Not  a  little  of  the 
brightest  work  that  bears  the  names  of  Pope  and  Swift  was  really 
Arbuthnot's. 


242 


THE   PIT  OF   LAW, 
GIVING  THE   HISTORY   OF  JOHN   BULL 


The  Occasion  of  the  Law  Suit. 

I  need  not  tell  you  of  the  great  quarrels  that  have  hap- 
pened in  our  neighborhood  since  the  death  of  the  late  Lord 
Strutt ; '  how  the  parson a  and  a  cunning  attorney  got  him 
to  settle  his  estate  upon  his  cousin  Philip  Baboon,  to  the 
great  disappointment  of  his  cousin  Esquire  South.  Some 
stick  not  to  say  that  the  parson  and  the  attorney  forged  a 
will ;  for  which  they  were  well  paid  by  the  family  of  the 
Baboons.  Let  that  be  as  it  will,  it  is  matter  of  fact  that  the 
honor  and  estate  have  continued  ever  since  in  the  person  of 
Philip  Baboon. 

You  know  that  the  Lord  Strutts  have  for  many  years 
been  possessed  of  a  very  great  landed  estate,  well  condi- 
tioned, wooded,  watered,  with  coal,  salt,  tin,  copper,  iron, 
etc.,  all  within  themselves;  that  it  has  been  the  misfortune 
of  that  family  to  be  the  property  of  their  stewards,  trades- 
men, and  inferior  servants,  which  has  brought  great  incum- 
brances upon  them ;  at  the  same  time,  their  not  abating  of 
their  expensive  way  of  living  has  forced  them  to  mortgage 
their  best  manors.  It  is  credibly  reported  that  the  butcher's 
and  baker's  bill  of  a  Lord  Strutt  that  lived  two  hundred 
years  ago  are  not  yet  paid. 

When  Philip  Baboon  came  first  to  the  possession  of  the 
Lord  Strutt's  estate,  his  tradesmen,  as  is  usual  upon  such 
occasions,  waited  upon  him  to  wish  him  joy  and  bespeak 
his  custom.     The  two  chief  were  John  Bull,*  the  clothier, 

1  King  of  Spain.  s  Cardinal  Portocarero.         8The  English. 

243 


244  ARBUTHNOT 

and  Nic.  Frog,'  the  linen-draper.  They  told  him  that  the 
Bulls  and  Frogs  had  served  the  Lord  Strutts  with  drapery- 
ware  for  many  years ;  that  they  were  honest  and  fair  dealers ; 
that  their  bills  had  never  been  questioned ;  that  the  Lord 
Strutts  lived  generously,  and  never  used  to  dirty  their  fin- 
gers with  pen,  ink,  and  counters ;  that  his  lordship  might 
depend  upon  their  honesty  that  they  would  use  him  as 
kindly  as  they  had  done  his  predecessors.  The  young  lord 
seemed  to  take  all  in  good  part,  and  dismissed  them  with  a 
deal  of  seeming  content,  assuring  them  he  did  not  intend  to 
change  any  of  the  honorable  maxims  of  his  predecessors. 


How  Bull  and  Frog  grew  jealous  that  the  Lord  Strutt 
intended  to  give  all  his  custom  to  his  grandfather 
Lewis  Baboon. 

It  happened  unfortunately  for  the  peace  of  our  neighbor- 
hood that  this  young  lord  had  an  old  cunning  rogue,  or,  as 
the  Scots  call  it,  a  false  loon  of  a  grandfather,  that  one 
might  justly  call  a  Jack-of-all-Trades.  Sometimes  you 
would  see  him  behind  his  counter  selling  broadcloth,  some- 
times measuring  linen;  next  day  he  would  be  dealing  in 
mercery-ware.  High  heads,  ribbons,  gloves,  fans,  and  lace 
he  understood  to  a  nicety.  Charles  Mather  could  not  bub- 
ble a  young  beau  better  with  a  toy ;  nay,  he  would  descend 
even  to  the  selling  of  tape,  garters,  and  shoe-buckles.  When 
shop  was  shut  up  he  would  go  about  the  neighborhood  and 
earn  half-a-crown  by  teaching  the  young  men  and  maids  to 
dance.  By  these  methods  he  had  acquired  immense  riches, 
which  he  used  to  squander  away  at  back-sword,  quarter- 
staff,  and  cudgel-play,  in  which  he  took  great  pleasure,  and 
challenged  all  the  country.  You  will  say  it  is  no  wonder  if 
Bull  and  Frog  should  be  jealous  of  this  fellow.  « It  is  not 
impossible,))  says  Frog  to  Bull,  «but  this  old  rogue  will  take 
the  management  of  the  young  lord's  business  into  his  hands; 
besides,  the  rascal  has  good  ware,  and  will  serve  him  as 
cheap  as  anybody.  In  that  case,  I  leave  you  to  judge  what 
must  become  of  us  and  our  families;   we  must  starve,  or 

1  The  Dutch. 


THE   PIT   OF   LAW  245 

turn  journeyman  to  old  Lewis  Baboon.  Therefore,  neigh- 
bor, I  hold  it  advisable  that  we  write  to  young  Lord  Strutt 
to  know  the  bottom  of  this  matter.* 


A  Copy  of  Bull  and  Frog's  Letter  to  Lord  Strutt. 

My  Lord, — I  suppose  your  lordship  knows  that  the  Bulls 
and  the  Frogs  have  served  the  Lord  Strutts  with  all  sorts  of 
drapery-ware  time  out  of  mind.  And  whereas  we  are  jeal- 
ous, not  without  reason,  that  your  lordship  intends  hence- 
forth to  buy  of  your  grandsire  old  Lewis  Baboon,  this  is  to 
inform  your  lordship  that  this  proceeding  does  not  suit  with 
the  circumstances  of  our  families,  who  have  lived  and  made 
a  good  figure  in  the  world  by  the  generosity  of  the  Lord 
Strutts.  Therefore  we  think  fit  to  acquaint  your  lordship 
that  you  must  find  sufficient  security  to  us,  our  heirs,  and 
assigns  that  you  will  not  employ  Lewis  Baboon,  or  else  we 
will  take  our  remedy  at  law,  clap  an  action  upon  you  of 
^20,000  for  old  .debts,  seize  and  distrain  your  goods  and 
chattels,  which,  considering  your  lordship's  circumstances, 
will  plunge  you  into  difficulties,  from  which  it  will  not  be 
easy  to  extricate  yourself.  Therefore  we  hope,  when  your 
lordship  has  better  considered  on  it,  you  will  comply  with 
the  desire  of 

Your  loving  friends, 

John  Bull, 
Nic.  Frog. 

Some  of  Bull's  friends  advised  him  to  take  gentler  meth- 
ods with  the  young  lord,  but  John  naturally  loved  rough 
play.  It  is  impossible  to  express  the  surprise  of  the  Lord 
Strutt  upon  the  receipt  of  this  letter.  He  was  not  flush  in 
ready  either  to  go  to  law  or  clear  old  debts,  neither  could 
he  find  good  bail.  He  offered  to  bring  matters  to  a  friendly 
accommodation,  and  promised,  upon  his  word  of  honor,  that 
he  would  not  change  his  drapers ;  but  all  to  no  purpose,  for 
Bull  and  Frog  saw  clearly  that  old  Lewis  would  have  the 
cheating  of  him. 


246  ARBUTHNOT 


How  Bull  and  Frog  went  to  law  with  Lord  Strutt  about 

THE     PREMISES,   AND     WERE     JOINED     BY    THE    REST    OF    THE 
TRADESMEN. 

All  endeavors  of  accommodation  between  Lord  Strutt  and 
his  drapers  proved  vain.  Jealousies  increased,  and,  indeed, 
it  was  rumored  abroad  that  Lord  Strutt  had  bespoke  his  new 
liveries  of  old  Lewis  Baboon.  This  coming  to  Mrs.  Bull's 
ears,  when  John  Bull  came  home,  he  found  all  his  family  in 
an  uproar.  Mrs.  Bull,  you  must  know,  was  very  apt  to  be 
choleric.  «  You  sot,»  says  she,  «you  loiter  about  alehouses 
and  taverns,  spend  your  time  at  billiards,  ninepins,  or 
puppet-shows,  or  flaunt  about  the  streets  in  your  new  gilt 
chariot,  never  minding  me  nor  your  numerous  family.  Don't 
you  hear  how  Lord  Strutt  has  bespoke  his  liveries  at  Lewis 
Baboon's  shop?  Don't  you  see  how  that  old  fox  steals  away 
your  customers,  and  turns  you  out  of  your  business  every 
day,  and  you  sit  like  an  idle  drone,  with  your  hands  in  your 
pockets?  Fie  upon  it.  Up  man,  rouse  thyself;  I'll  sell  to 
my  shift  before  I'll  be  so  used  by  that  knave. »  You  must 
think  Mrs.  Bull  had  been  pretty  well  tuned  up  by  Frog,  who 
chimed  in  with  her  learned  harangue.  No  further  delay 
now,  but  to  counsel  learned  in  the  law  they  go,  who  unani- 
mously assured  them  both  of  justice  and  infallible  success 
of  their  lawsuit. 

I  told  you  before  that  old  Lewis  Baboon  was  a  sort  of  a 
Jack-of-all-trades,  which  made  the  rest  of  the  tradesmen 
jealous,  as  well  as  Bull  and  Frog ;  they  hearing  of  the  quar- 
rel, were  glad  of  an  opportunity  of  joining  against  old  Lewis 
Baboon,  provided  that  Bull  and  Frog  would  bear  the  charges 
of  the  suit.  Even  lying  Ned,  the  chimney-sweeper  of 
Savoy,  and  Tom,  the  Portugal  dustman,  put  in  their  claims, 
and  the  cause  was  put  into  the  hands  of  Humphry  Hocus, 
the  attorney. 

A  declaration  was  drawn  up  to  show  «  That  Bull  and  Frog 
had  undoubted  right  by  prescription  to  be  drapers  to  the 
Lord  Strutts ;  that  there  were  several  old  contracts  to  that 
purpose;  that  Lewis  Baboon  had  taken  up  the  trade  of 
clothier  and  draper  without  serving  his  time  or  purchasing 


THE  PIT  OF  LAW  047 

his  freedom ;  that  he  sold  goods  that  were  not  marketable 
without  the  stamp ;  that  he  himself  was  more  fit  for  a  bully 
than  a  tradesman,  and  went  about  through  all  the  country 
fairs  challenging  people  to  fight  prizes,  wrestling  and  cudgel 
play,  and  abundance  more  to  this  purpose.* 


The  true  characters  of  John  Bull,  Nic  Frog,  and  Hocus.1 

For  the  better  understanding  the  following  history  the 
reader  ought  to  know  that  Bull,  in  the  main,  was  an  honest, 
plain-dealing  fellow,  choleric,  bold,  and  of  a  very  uncon- 
stant  temper;  he  dreaded  not  old  Lewis  either  at  back- 
sword, single  falchion,  or  cudgel-play ;  but  then  he  was  very 
apt  to  quarrel  with  his  best  friends,  especially  if  they  pre- 
tended to  govern  him.  If  you  flattered  him  you  might  lead 
him  like  a  child.  John's  temper  depended  very  much  upon 
the  air;  his  spirits  rose  and  fell  with  the  weather-glass. 
John  was  quick  and  understood  his  business  very  well,  but 
no  man  alive  was  more  careless  in  looking  into  his  accounts, 
or  more  cheated  by  partners,  apprentices,  and  servants. 
This  was  occasioned  by  his  being  a  boon  companion,  loving 
his  bottle  and  his  diversion ;  for,  to  say  truth,  no  man  kept 
a  better  house  than  John,  nor  spent  his  money  more  gener- 
ously. By  plain  and  fair  dealing  John  had  acquired  some 
plums,  and  might  have  kept  them,  had  it  not  been  for  his 
unhappy  lawsuit. 

Nic.  Frog  was  a  cunning,  sly  fellow,  quite  the  reverse  of 
John  in  many  particulars ;  covetous,  frugal,  minded  domes- 
tic affairs,  would  pinch  his  belly  to  save  his  pocket,  never 
lost  a  farthing  by  careless  servants  or  bad  debtors.  He  did 
not  care  much  for  any  sort  of  diversion,  except  tricks  of 
high  German  artists  and  legerdemain.  No  man  exceeded 
Nic.  in  these;  yet  it  must  be  owned  that  Nic.  was  a  fair 
dealer,  and  in  that  way  acquired  immense  riches. 

Hocus  was  an  old  cunning  attorney,  and  though  this  was 

the  first  considerable  suit  that  ever  he  was  engaged  in  he 

showed  himself  superior  in  address  to  most  of  his  profession. 

He  kept  always  good  clerks,  he  loved  money,  was  smooth- 

1  The  English  and  Dutch,  and  the  Duke  of  Marlborough. 


248  ARBUTHNOT 

tongued,  gave  good  words,  and  seldom  lost  his  temper.  He 
was  not  worse  than  an  infidel,  for  he  provided  plentifully 
for  his  family,  but  he  loved  himself  better  than  them  all. 
The  neighbors  reported  that  he  was  henpecked,  which  was 
impossible,  by  such  a  mild-spirited  woman  as  his  wife  was. 


Of  the  various  success  of  the  Lawsuit. 

Law  is  a  bottomless  pit ;  it  is  a  cormorant,  a  harpy,  that 
devours  everything.  John  Bull  was  nattered  by  the  law- 
yers that  his  suit  would  not  last  above  a  year  or  two  at  most ; 
that  before  that  time  he  would  be  in  quiet  possession  of  his 
business;  yet  ten  long  years  did  Hocus  steer  his  cause 
through  all  the  meanders  of  the  law  and  all  the  courts.  No 
skill,  no  address  was  wanting,  and,  to  say  truth,  John  did 
not  starve  the  cause ;  there  wanted  not  yellowboys  to  fee 
counsel,  hire  witnesses,  and  bribe  juries.  Lord  Strutt  was 
generally  cast,  never  had  one  verdict  in  his  favor,  and  John 
was  promised  that  the  next,  and  the  next,  would  be  the 
final  determination;  but,  alas!  that  final  determination  and 
happy  conclusion  was  like  an  enchanted  island ;  the  nearer 
John  came  to  it  the  further  it  went  from  him.  New  trials 
upon  new  points  still  arose,  new  doubts,  new  matters  to  be 
cleared ;  in  short,  lawyers  seldom  part  with  so  good  a  cause 
till  they  have  got  the  oyster  and  their  clients  the  shell. 
John's  ready  money,  book  debts,  bonds,  mortgages,  all  went 
into  the  lawyers'  pockets.  Then  John  began  to  borrow 
money  upon  Bank  Stock  and  East  India  Bonds.  Now  and 
then  a  farm  went  to  pot.  At  last  it  was  thought  a  good 
expedient  to  set  up  Esquire  South's  title  to  prove  the  will 
forged  and  dispossess  Philip  Lord  Strutt  at  once.  Here 
again  was  a  new  field  for  the  lawyers,  and  the  cause  grew 
more  intricate  than  ever.  John  grew  madder  and  madder ; 
wherever  he  met  any  of  Lord  Strutt* s  servants  he  tore  off 
their  clothes.  Now  and  then  you  would  see  them  come 
home  naked,  without  shoes,  stockings,  and  linen.  As  for 
old  Lewis  Baboon,  he  was  reduced  to  his  last  shift,  though 
he  had  as  many  as  any  other.  His  children  were  reduced 
from  rich  silks  to  doily  stuffs,  his  servants  in  rags  and  bare- 


THE   PIT  OF   LAW  249 

footed ;  instead  of  good  victuals  they  now  lived  upon  neck 
beef  and  bullock's  liver.  In  short,  nobody  got  much  by  the 
matter  but  the  men  of  law. 


How  John  Bull  was  so  mightily  pleased  with  his  success 
that  he  was  going  to  leave  off  his  trade  and  turn 
Lawyer. 

It  is  wisely  observed  by  a  great  philosopher  that  habit  is  a 
second  nature.  This  was  verified  in  the  case  of  John  Bull, 
who,  from  an  honest  and  plain  tradesman,  had  got  such  a 
haunt  about  the  Courts  of  Justice,  and  such  a  jargon  of  law 
words,  that  he  concluded  himself  as  able  a  lawyer  as  any 
that  pleaded  at  the  bar  or  sat  on  the  bench.  He  was  over- 
heard one  day  talking  to  himself  after  this  manner :  «  How 
capriciously  does  fate  or  chance  dispose  of  mankind.  How 
seldom  is  that  business  allotted  to  a  man  for  which  he  is 
fitted  by  Nature.  It  is  plain  I  was  intended  for  a  man  of 
law.  How  did  my  guardians  mistake  my  genius  in  placing 
me,  like  a  mean  slave,  behind  a  counter?  Bless  me!  what 
immense  estates  these  fellows  raise  by  the  law.  Besides, 
it  is  the  profession  of  a  gentleman.  What  a  pleasure  it  is  to 
be  victorious  in  a  cause :  to  swagger  at  the  bar.  What  a 
fool  am  I  to  drudge  any  more  in  this  woollen  trade.  For  a 
lawyer  I  was  born,  and  a  lawyer  I  will  be ;  one  is  never  too 
old  to  learn. »  All  this  while  John  had  conned  over  such  a 
catalogue  of  hard  words  as  were  enough  to  conjure  up  the 
devil ;  these  he  used  to  babble  indifferently  in  all  companies, 
especially  at  coffee  houses,  so  that  his  neighbor  tradesmen 
began  to  shun  his  compan)T  as  a  man  that  was  cracked.  In- 
stead of  the  affairs  of  Blackwell  Hall  and  price  of  broad- 
cloth, wool,  and  baizes,  he  talks  of  nothing  but  actions  upon 
the  case,  returns,  capias,  alias  capias,  demurrers,  venire 
facias,  replevins,  supersedeases,  certioraries,  writs  of  error, 
actions  of  trover  and  conversion,  trespasses,  precipes,  and 
dedimus.  This  was  matter  of  jest  to  the  learned  in  law; 
however  Hocus  and  the  rest  of  the  tribe  encouraged  John  in 
his  fancy,  assuring  him  that  he  had  a  great  genius  for  law ; 
that  they  questioned  not  but  in  time  he  might  raise  money 


250  ARBUTHNOT 

enough  by  it  to  reimburse  him  of  all  his  charges ;  that  if  he 
studied  he  would  undoubtedly  arrive  to  the  dignity  of  a 
Lord  Chief  Justice.  As  for  the  advice  of  honest  friends  and 
neighbors  John  despised  it ;  he  looked  upon  them  as  fellows 
of  a  low  genius,  poor  grovelling  mechanics.  John  reckoned 
it  more  honor  to  have  got  one  favorable  verdict  than  to  have 
sold  a  bale  of  broadcloth.  As  for  Nic.  Frog,  to  say  the 
truth,  he  was  more  prudent;  for  though  he  followed  his 
lawsuit  closely  he  neglected  not  his  ordinary  business,  but 
was  both  in  court  and  in  his  shop  at  the  proper  hours. 


How   John    discovered  that  Hocus  had  an  Intrigue  with 
his  Wife;  and  whal  followed  thereupon. 

John  had  not  run  on  a  madding  so  long  had  it  not  been  for 
an  extravagant  wife,  whom  Hocus  perceiving  John  to  be 
fond  of,  was  resolved  to  win  over  to  his  side.  It  is  a  true 
saying,  that  the  last  man  of  the  parish  that  knows  of  his 
cuckoldom  is  himself.  It  was  observed  by  all  the  neighbor- 
hood that  Hocus  had  dealings  with  John's  wife  that  were 
not  so  much  for  his  honor ;  but  this  was  perceived  by  John 
a  little  too  late :  she  was  a  luxurious  jade,  loved  splendid 
equipages,  plays,  treats  and  balls,  differing  very  much  from 
the  sober  manners  of  her  ancestors,  and  by  no  means  fit  for 
a  tradesman's  wife.  Hocus  fed  her  extravagancy  (what  w>as 
still  more  shameful)  with  John's  own  money.  Everybody 
said  that  Hocus  had  a  month's  mind  to  her;  be  that  as  it 
will,  it  is  matter  of  fact,  that  upon  all  occasions  she  ran  out 
extravagantly  on  the  praise  of  Hocus.  When  John  used  to 
be  finding  fault  with  his  bills,  she  used  to  reproach  him  as 
ungrateful  to  his  greatest  benefactor ;  one  that  had  taken  so 
much  pains  in  his  lawsuit,  and  retrieved  his  family  from  the 
oppression  of  old  Lewis  Baboon.  A  good  swinging  sum  of 
John's  readiest  cash  went  towards  building  of  Hocus's  coun- 
try house.'  This  affair  between  Hocus  and  Mrs.  Bull  was 
now  so  open,  that  all  the  world  was  scandalized  at  it ;  John 
was  not  so  clod-pated,  but  at  last  he  took  the  hint.  The 
1  Blenheim  Palace. 


THE  PIT  OF  LAW  251 

parson  of  the  parish  preaching-  one  day  with  more  zeal  than 
sense  against  adultery,  Mrs.  Bull  told  her  husband  that  he 
was  a  very  uncivil  fellow  to  use  such  coarse  language  before 
people  of  condition ;  *  that  Hocus  was  of  the  same  mind,  and 
that  they  would  join  to  have  him  turned  out  of  his  living  for 
using  personal  reflections.  How  do  you  mean,  says  John, 
by  personal  reflections?  I  hope  in  God,  wife,  he  did  not 
reflect  upon  you?  «No,  thank  God,  my  reputation  is  too 
well  established  in  the  world  to  receive  any  hurt  from  such 
a  foul-mouthed  scoundrel  as  he ;  his  doctrine  tends  only  to 
make  husbands  tyrants,  and  wives  slaves ;  must  we  be  shut 
up,  and  husbands  left  to  their  liberty?  Very  pretty  indeed! 
a  wife  must  never  go  abroad  with  a  Platonic  to  see  a  play 
or  a  ball;  she  must  never  stir  without  her  husband;  nor 
walk  in  Spring  Garden  with  a  cousin.  I  do  say,  husband, 
and  I  will  stand  by  it,  that  without  the  innocent  freedoms 
of  life,  matrimony  would  be  a  most  intolerable  state ;  and 
that  a  wife's  virtue  ought  to  be  the  result  of  her  own  rea- 
son, and  not  of  her  husband's  government:  for  my  part,  I 
would  scorn  a  husband  that  would  be  jealous,  if  he  saw  a 
fellow  with  me.»  All  this  while  John's  blood  boiled  in  his 
veins:  he  was  now  confirmed  in  all  his  suspicions;  the  hard- 
est names,  were  the  best  words  that  John  gave  her.  Things 
went  from  better  to  worse,  till  Mrs.  Bull  aimed  a  knife  at 
John,  though  John  threw  a  bottle  at  her  head  very  brutally 
indeed:  and  after  this  there  was  nothing  but  confusion; 
bottles,  glasses,  spoons,  plates,  knives,  forks,  and  dishes, 
flew  about  like  dust ;  the  result  of  which  was,  that  Mrs.  Bull 
received  a  bruise  in  her  right  side  of  which  she  died  half  a 
year  after.  The  bruise  imposthumated,  and  afterwards 
turned  to  a  stinking  ulcer,  which  made  everybody  shy  to 
come  near  her,  yet  she  wanted  not  the  help  of  many  able 
physicians,  who  attended  very  diligently,  and  did  what  men 
of  skill  could  do ;  but  all  to  no  purpose,  for  her  condition 
was  now  quite  desperate,  all  regular  physicians  and  her 
nearest  relations  having  given  her  over. 

1  The  story  of  Dr.  Sacheverel,  and  the  resentment  of  the  House  of 
Commons. 


252 


ARBUTHNOT 


How  some  Quacks  undertook  to  cure  Mrs.  Bull  of  her 

ulcer. 

There  is  nothing  so  impossible  in  Nature  but  mountebanks 
will  undertake ;  nothing  so  incredible  but  they  will  affirm : 
Mrs.  Bull's  condition  was  looked  upon  as  desperate  by  all 
the  men  of  art ;  but  there  were  those  that  bragged  they  had 
an  infallible  ointment  and  plaster,  which  being  applied  to 
the  sore,  would  cure  it  in  a  few  days ;  at  the  same  time  they 
would  give  her  a  pill  that  would  purge  off  all  her  bad 
humors,  sweeten  her  blood,  and  rectify  her  disturbed  imag- 
ination. In  spite  of  all  applications  the  patient  grew  worse 
everyday;  she  stunk  so,  nobody  durst  come  within  a  stone's 
throw  of  her,  except  those  quacks  who  attended  her  close, 
and  apprehended  no  danger.  If  one  asked  them  how  Mrs. 
Bull  did?  Better  and  better,  said  they;  the  parts  heal,  and 
her  constitution  mends:  if  she  submits  to  our  government 
she  will  be  abroad  in  a  little  time.  Nay,  it  is  reported  that 
they  wrote  to  her  friends  in  the  country  that  she  should 
dance  a  jig  next  October  in  Westminster  Hall,  and  that  her 
illness  had  been  chiefly  owing  to  bad  physicians.  At  last, 
one  of  them  was  sent  for  in  great  haste,  his  patient  grew 
worse  and  worse :  when  he  came,  he  affirmed  that  it  was  a 
gross  mistake,  and  that  she  was  never  in  a  fairer  way.  Bring 
hither  the  salve,  says  he,  and  give  her  a  plentiful  draught 
of  my  cordial.  As  he  was  applying  his  ointments,  and  ad- 
ministering the  cordial,  the  patient  gave  up  the  ghost,  to 
the  great  confusion  of  the  quack,  and  the  great  joy  of  Bull 
and  his  friends.  The  quack  flung  away  out  of  the  house  in 
great  disorder,  and  swore  there  was  foul  play,  for  he  was 
sure  his  medicines  were  infallible.  Mrs.  Bull  having  died 
without  any  signs  of  repentance  or  devotion,  the  clergy 
would  hardly  allow  her  a  Christian  burial.  The  relations 
had  once  resolved  to  sue  John  for  the  murder,  but  consider- 
ing  better  of  it,  and  that  such  a  trial  would  rip  up  old  sores, 
and  discover  things  not  so  much  to  the  reputation  of  the  de- 
ceased, they  dropped  their  design.  She  left  no  will,  only 
there  was  found  in  her  strong  box  the  following  words  writ- 
ten on  a  scrip  of  paper — «  My  curse  on  John  Bull,  and  all 


THE   PIT  OF  LAW  253 

my  posterity,  if  ever  they  come  to  any  composition  with  the 
1  Lord  Strutt.)) 

She  left  him  three  daughters,  whose  names  were  Polemia, 
Discordia,  and  Usuria.1 


Of  John  Bull's  second  Wife,3  and  the   good  Advice   that 
she  gave  him. 

John  quickly  got  the  better  of  his  grief,  and,  seeing  that 
neither  his  constitution  nor  the  affairs  of  his  family,  could 
permit  him  to  live  in  an  unmarried  state,  he  resolved  to  get 
him  another  wife;  a  cousin  of  his  last  wife's  was  proposed, 
but  John  would  have  no  more  of  the  breed.  In  short,  he 
wedded  a  sober  country  gentlewoman,  of  a  good  family  and 
a  plentiful  fortune,  the  reverse  of  the  other  in  her  temper  ; 
not  but  that  she  loved  money,  for  she  was  saving,  and  ap- 
plied her  fortune  to  pay  John's  clamorous  debts,  that  the 
unfrugal  methods  of  his  last  wife,  and  this  ruinous  lawsuit, 
had  brought  him  into.  One  day,  as  she  had  got  her  hus- 
band in  a  good  humor,  she  talked  to  him  after  the  following 
manner: — « My  dear,  since  I  have  been  your  wife,  I  have 
observed  great  abuses  and  disorders  in  your  family:  your 
servants  are  mutinous  and  quarrelsome,  and  cheat  you  most 
abominably;  your  cookmaid  is  in  a  combination  with  your 
butcher,  poulterer,  and  fishmonger;  your  butler  purloins 
your  liquor,  and  the  brewer  sells  you  hogwash;  your  baker 
cheats  both  in  weight  and  in  tale ;  even  your  milkwoman 
and  your  nursery-maid  have  a  fellow  feeling ;  your  tailor, 
instead  of  shreds,  cabbages  whole  yards  of  cloth ;  besides, 
leaving  such  long  scores,  and  not  going  to  market  with  ready 
money  forces  us  to  take  bad  ware  of  the  tradesmen  at  their 
own  price.  You  have  not  posted  your  books  these  ten 
years.  How  is  it  possible  for  a  man  of  business  to  keep  his 
affairs  even  in  the  world  at  this  rate?  Pray  God  this  Hocus 
be  honest ;  would  to  God  you  would  look  over  his  bills,  and 
see  how  matters  stand  between  Frog  and  you.  Prodigious 
sums  are  spent  in  this  lawsuit,  and  more  must  be  borrowed 
of  scriveners  and  usurers  at  heavy  interest.     Besides,  my 

1  War,  faction,  and  usury. 

'A  new  Tory  Parliament,  averse  to  war. 


354 


ARBUTHNOT 


dear,  let  me  beg  of  you  to  lay  aside  that  wild  project  of 
leaving  your  business  to  turn  lawyer,  for  which,  let  me  tell 
you,  Nature  never  designed  you.  Believe  me,  these  rogues 
do  but  flatter,  that  they  may  pick  your  pocket ;  observe  what 
a  parcel  of  hungry  ragged  fellows  live  by  your  cause ;  to  be 
sure  they  will  never  make  an  end  of  it.  ,1  foresee  this  haunt 
you  have  got  about  the  courts  will  one  day  or  another  bring 
your  family  to  beggary.  Consider,  my  dear,  how  indecent 
it  is  to  abandon  your  shop  and  follow  pettifoggers ;  the  habit 
is  so  strong  upon  you,  that  there  is  hardly  a  plea  between 
two  country  esquires,  about  a  barren  acre  upon  a  common, 
but  you  draw  yourself  in  as  bail,  surety,  or  solicitor. »  John 
heard  her  all  this  while  with  patience,  till  she  pricked  his 
maggot,  and  touched  him  in  the  tender  point.  Then  he 
broke  out  into  a  violent  passion :  «  What,  I  not  fit  for  a  law- 
yer? let  me  tell  you,  my  clod-pated  relations  spoiled  the 
greatest  genius  in  the  world  when  they  bred  me  a  mechanic. 
Lord  Strutt,  and  his  old  rogue  of  a  grandsire,  have  found 
to  their  cost  that  I  can  manage  a  lawsuit  as  well  as  another.* 
«I  don't  deny  what  you  say,»  replied  Mrs.  Bull,  «nor  do  I 
call  in  question  your  parts ;  but,  I  say,  it  does  not  suit  with 
your  circumstances ;  you  and  your  predecessors  have  lived 
in  good  reputation  among  your  neighbors  by  this  same  cloth- 
ing-trade, and  it  were  madness  to  leave  it  off.  Besides, 
there  are  few  that  know  all  the  tricks  and  cheats  of  these 
lawyers.  Does  not  your  own  experience  teach  you  how 
they  have  drawn  you  on  from  one  term  to  another,  and  how 
you  have  danced  the  round  of  all  the  courts,  still  flattering 
you  with  a  final  issue ;  and,  for  aught  I  can  see,  your  cause 
is  not  a  bit  clearer  than  it  was  seven  years  ago.»  « I  will  be 
hanged,»  says  John,  « if  I  accept  of  any  composition  from 
Strutt  or  his  grandfather;  I'll  rather  wheel  about  the  streets 
an  engine  to  grind  knives  and  scissors.  However,  I'll  take 
your  advice,  and  look  over  my  accounts. » 


How  John  looked  over  his  Attorney's  Bill. 

When  John  first  brought  out  the  bills,  the  surprise  of  all 
the  family  was  unexpressible  at  the  prodigious  dimensions 
of  them ;   they  would  have  measured  with  the  best  bale  of 


THE   PIT  OP  LAW  355 

cloth  in  John's  shop.  Fees  to  judges,  puny  judges,  clerks, 
prothonotaries,  philizers,  chirographers,  under-clerks,  pro- 
clamators,  counsel,  witnesses,  jurymen,  marshals,  tipstaffs, 
criers,  porters ;  for  enrollings,  exemplifications,  bails,  vouch- 
ers, returns,  caveats,  examinations,  filings  of  words,  entries, 
declarations,  replications,  recordats,  nolle  prosequies,  cer- 
tioraries,  mittimuses,  demurrers,  special  verdicts,  informa- 
tions, scire  facias,  supersedeas,  habeas  corpus,  coach-hire, 
treating  of  witnesses,  etc.  «  Verily, »  says  John,  « there  are  a 
prodigious  number  of  learned  words  in  this  law;  what  a 
pretty  science  it  is !  »  «  Ay  but,  husband,  you  have  paid  for 
every  syllable  and  letter  of  these  fine  words.  Bless  me, 
what  immense  sums  are  at  the  bottom  of  the  account ! » 
John  spent  several  weeks  in  looking  over  his  bills,  and,  by 
comparing  and  stating  his  accounts,  he  discovered  that  be- 
sides the  extravagance  of  every  article,  he  had  been  egre- 
giously  cheated ;  that  he  had  paid  for  counsel  that  were  never 
feed,  for  writs  that  were  never  drawn,  for  dinners  that  were 
never  dressed,  and  journeys  that  were  never  made ;  in  short, 
that  the  tradesmen,  lawyers,  and  Frog  had  agreed  to  throw 
the  burden  of  the  lawsuit  upon  his  shoulders. 


How  John  grew  angry,  and  resolved  to  accept  a  Com- 
position; and  what  Methods  were  practised  by  the 
Lawyers  for  keeping  him  from  it. 

Well  might  the  learned  Daniel  Burgess  say,  «  That  a  law- 
suit is  a  suit  for  life.  He  that  sows  his  grain  upon  marble 
will  have  many  a  hungry  belly  before  harvest.))  This  John 
felt  by  woful  experience.  John's  cause  was  a  good  milch 
cow,  and  many  a  man  subsisted  his  family  out  of  it.  How- 
ever, John  began  to  think  it  high  time  to  look  about  him. 
He  had  a  cousin  in  the  country,  one  Sir  Roger  Bold,  whose 
predecessors  had  been  bred  up  to  the  law,  and  knew  as  much 
of  it  as  anybody ;  but  having  left  off  the  profession  for  some 
time,  they  took  great  pleasure  in  compounding  lawsuits 
among  their  neighbors,  for  which  they  were  the  aversion  of 
the  gentlemen  of  the  long  robe,  and  at  perpetual  war  with 
all  the  country  attorneys.     John  put  his  cause  in  Sir  Roger's 


256  ARBUTHNOT 

hands,  desiring  him  to  make  the  best  of  it.  The  news  had 
no  sooner  reached  the  ears  of  the  lawyers,  but  they  were  all 
in  an  uproar.  They  brought  all  the  rest  of  the  tradesmen 
upon  John.  Squire  South  swore  he  was  betrayed,  that  he 
would  starve  before  he  compounded;  Frog  said  he  was 
highly  wronged ;  even  lying  Ned  the  chimney-sweeper  and 
Tom  the  dustman  complained  that  their  interest  was  sacri- 
ficed ;  the  lawyers,  solicitors,  Hocus  and  his  clerks,  were  all 
up  in  arms  at  the  news  of  the  composition :  they  abused  him 
and  his  wife  most  shamefully.  « You  silly,  awkward,  ill- 
bred  country  sow,»  quoth  one,  «have  you  no  more  manners 
than  to  rail  at  Hocus,  that  has  saved  that  clod-pated  num- 
skulled  ninnyhammer  of  yours  from  ruin,  and  all  his  fam- 
ily? It  is  well  known  how  he  has  rose  early  and  sat  up  late 
to  make  him  easy,  when  he  was  sotting  at  every  alehouse 
in  town.  I  knew  his  last  wife :  she  was  a  woman  of  breeding, 
good  humor,  and  complaisance — knew  how  to  live  in  the 
world.  As  for  you,  you  look  like  a  puppet  moved  by  clock- 
work ;  your  clothes  hang  upon  you  as  they  were  upon  tenter- 
hooks ;  and  you  come  into  a  room  as  you  were  going  to  steal 
away  a  pint  pot.  Get  you  gone  in  the  country,  to  look  after 
your  mother's  poultry,  to  milk  the  cows,  churn  the  butter, 
and  dress  up  nosegays  for  a  holiday,  and  not  meddle  with 
matters  which  you  know  no  more  of  than  the  sign-post  be- 
fore your  door.  It  is  well  known  that  Hocus  has  an  estab- 
lished reputation ;  he  never  swore  an  oath,  nor  told  a  lie,  in 
all  his  life;  he  is  grateful  to  his  benefactors,  faithful  to  his 
friends,  liberal  to  his  dependents,  and  dutiful  to  his  supe- 
riors ;  he  values  not  your  money  more  than  the  dust  under  his 
feet,  but  he  hates  to  be  abused.  Once  for  all,  Mrs.  Minx, 
leave  off  talking  of  Hocus,  or  I  will  pull  out  these  saucer- 
eyes  of  yours,  and  make  that  redstreak  country  face  look  as 
raw  as  an  ox-cheek  upon  a  butcher's-stall;  remember,  I  say, 
that  there  are  pillories  and  ducking-stools. »  With  this  away 
they  flung,  leaving  Mrs.  Bull  no  time  to  reply.  No  stone 
was  left  unturned  to  frighten  John  from  his  composition. 
Sometimes  they  spread  reports  at  coffee-houses  that  John 
and  his  wife  were  run  mad;  that  they  intended  to  give  up 
house,  and  make  over  all  their  estate  to  Lewis  Baboon ;  that 
John  had  been  often  heard  talking  to  himself,  and  seen  in 


THE   PIT  OF   LAW  257 

the  streets  without  shoes  or  stockings ;  that  he  did  nothing 
from  morning  till  night  but  beat  his  servants,  after  having 
been  the  best  master  alive.  As  for  his  wife,  she  was  a  mere 
natural.  Sometimes  John's  house  was  beset  with  a  whole 
regiment  of  attorneys'  clerks,  bailiffs,  and  bailiffs'  followers, 
and  other  small  retainers  of  the  law,  who  threw  stones  at 
his  windows,  and  dirt  at  himself  as  he  went  along  the  street. 
When  John  complained  of  want  of  ready  money  to  carry  on 
his  suit,  they  advised  him  to  pawn  his  plate  and  jewels,  and 
that  Mrs.  Bull  should  sell  her  linen  and  wearing  clothes. 


Mrs.  Bull's  vindication  of  the  indispensable  duty  incum- 
bent upon  Wives  in  case  of  the  Tyranny,  Infidelity, 
or  Insufficiency  of  Husbands;  being  a  full  Answer 
to  the  Doctor's  Sermon  against  Adultery.1 

John  found  daily  fresh  proofs  of  the  infidelity  and  bad  de- 
signs of  his  deceased  wife ;  amongst  other  things,  one  day 
looking  over  his  cabinet,  he  found  the  following  paper: 

« It  is  evident  that  matrimony  is  founded  upon  an  origi- 
nal contract,  whereby  the  wife  makes  over  the  right  she  has 
by  the  law  of  Nature  in  favor  of  the  husband,  by  which  he 
acquires  the  property  of  all  her  posterity.  But,  then,  the 
obligation  is  mutual ;  and  where  the  contract  is  broken  on 
one  side  it  ceases  to  bind  on  the  other.  Where  there  is  a 
right  there  must  be  a  power  to  maintain  it  and  to  punish 
the  offending  party.  This  power  I  affirm  to  be  that  original 
right,  or  rather  that  indispensable  duty  lodged  in  all  wives 
in  the  cases  above-mentioned.  No  wife  is  bound  by  any 
law  to  which  herself  has  not  consented.  All  economical 
government  is  lodged  originally  in  the  husband  and  wife, 
the  executive  part  being  in  the  husband ;  both  have  their 
privileges  secured  to  them  by  law  and  reason ;  but  will  any 
man  infer  from  the  husband  being  invested  with  the  execu- 
tive power,  that  the  wife  is  deprived  of  her  share,  and  that 
she  has  no  remedy  left  hut  preces  and  lacrynice,  or  an  appeal 
to  a  supreme  court  of  judicature?  No  less  frivolous  are  the 
arrangements  that  are  drawn  from  the  general  appellations 

1  The  Tories'  representation  of  the  speeches  at  Sacheverel's  trial. 
17 


258  ARBUTHNOT 

and  terms  of  husband  and  wife.  A  husband  denotes  several 
different  sorts  of  magistracy,  according  to  the  usages  and 
customs  of  different  climates  and  countries.  In  some  east- 
ern nations  it  signifies  a  tyrant,  with  the  absolute  power  of 
life  and  death.  In  Turkey  it  denotes  an  arbitrary  governor, 
with  power  of  perpetual  imprisonment ;  in  Italy  it  gives  the 
husband  the  power  of  poison  and  padlocks ;  in  the  countries 
of  England,  France,  and  Holland,  it  has  a  quite  different 
meaning,  implying  a  free  and  equal  government,  securing 
to  the  wife  in  certain  cases  the  liberty  of  change,  and  the 
property  of  pin-money  and  separate  maintenance.  So  that  the 
arguments  drawn  from  the  terms  of  husband  and  wife  are  fal- 
lacious, and  by  no  means  fit  to  support  a  tyrannical  doctrine, 
as  that  of  absolute  unlimited  chastity  and  conjugal  fidelity. 

«  The  general  exhortations  to  fidelity  in  wives  are  meant 
only  for  rules  in  ordinary  cases,  but  they  naturally  suppose 
three  conditions  6f  ability,  justice,  and  fidelity  in  the  hus- 
band; such  an  unlimited,  unconditioned  fidelity  in  the  wife 
could  never  be  supposed  by  reasonable  men.  It  seems  a 
reflection  upon  the  Church  to  charge  her  with  doctrines  that 
countenance  oppression. 

« This  doctrine  of  the  original  right  of  change  is  con- 
gruous to  the  law  of  Nature,  which  is  superior  to  all  human 
laws,  and  for  that  I  dare  appeal  to  all  wives :  It  is  much  to 
the  honor  of  our  English  wives  that  they  have  never  given 
up  that  fundamental  point,  and  that  though  in  former  ages 
they  were  muffled  up  in  darkness  and  superstition,  yet  that 
notion  seemed  engraven  on  their  minds,  and  the  impression 
so  strong  that  nothing  could  impair  it. 

«To  assert  the  illegality  of  change,  upon  any  pretence 
whatsoever,  were  to  cast  odious  colors  upon  the  married 
state,  to  blacken  the  necessary  means  of  perpetuating  fam- 
ilies— such  laws  can  never  be  supposed  to  have  been  de- 
signed to  defeat  the  very  end  of  matrimony.  I  call  them 
necessary  means,  for  in  many  cases  what  other  means  are 
left?  Such  a  doctrine  wounds  the  honor  of  families,  unset- 
tles the  titles  to  kingdoms,  honors,  and  estates;  for  if  the 
actions  from  which  such  settlements  spring  were  illegal,  all 
that  is  built  upon  them  must  be  so  too ;  but  the  last  is  absurd, 
therefore  the  first  must  be  so  likewise.     What  is  the  cause 


THE   PIT   OF   LAW  259 

that  Europe  groans  at  present  under  the  heavy  load  of  a 
cruel  and  expensive  war,  but  the  tyrannical  custom  of  a  cer- 
tain nation,  and  the  scrupulous  nicety  of  a  silly  queen  in  not 
exercising  this  indispensable  duty,  whereby  the  kingdom 
might  have  had  an  heir,  and  a  controverted  succession  might 
have  been  avoided.  These  are  the  effects  of  the  narrow 
maxims  of  your  clergy,  'That  one  must  not  do  evil  that  good 
may  come  of  it. ' 

«The  assertors  of  this  indefeasible  right,  and  jus  divinum 
of  matrimony,  do  all  in  their  hearts  favor  the  pretenders  to 
married  women ;  for  if  the  true  legal  foundation  of  the  mar- 
ried state  be  once  sapped,  and  instead  thereof  tyrannical 
maxims  introduced,  what  must  follow  but  elopements  in- 
stead of  secret  and  peaceable  change? 

« From  all  that  has  been  said,  one  may  clearly  perceive 
the  absurdity  of  the  doctrine  of  this  seditious,  discontented, 
hot-headed,  ungifted,  unedifying  preacher,  asserting  '  that 
the  grand  security  of  the  matrimonial  state,  and  the  pillar 
upon  which  it  stands,  is  founded  upon  the  wife's  belief  of 
an  absolute  unconditional  fidelity  to  the  husband  ' ;  by  which 
bold  assertion  he  strikes  at  the  root,  digs  the  foundation,  and 
removes  the  basis  upon  which  the  happiness  of  a  married 
state  is  built.  As  for  his  personal  reflections,  I  would  gladly 
know  who  are  those  '  wanton  wives  '  he  speaks  of?  who  are 
those  ladies  of  high  stations  that  he  so  boldly  traduces  in  his 
sermon?  It  is  pretty  plain  who  these  aspersions  are  aimed 
at,  for  which  he  deserves  the  pillory,  or  something  worse. 

« In  confirmation  of  this  doctrine  of  the  indispensable  duty 
of  change,  I  could  bring  the  example  of  the  wisest  wives  in 
all  ages,  who  by  these  means  have  preserved  their  husband's 
families  from  ruin  and  oblivion  by  want  of  posterity ;  but 
what  has  been  said  is  a  sufficient  ground  for  punishing  this 
pragmatical  parson. » 


The  two  great  Parties  of  Wives,  the  Devotos  and  the 
•    Hitts. 

The  doctrine  of  unlimited  fidelity  in  wives  was  universally 
espoused  by  all  husbands,  who  went  about  the  country  and 
made  the  wives  sign  papers  signifying  their  utter  detesta- 


26o  ARBUTHNOT 

tion  and  abhorrence  of  Mrs.  Bull's  wicked  doctrine  of  the 
indispensable  duty  of  change.  Some  yielded,  others  re- 
fused to  part  with  their  native  liberty,  which  gave  rise  to 
two  great  parties  amongst  the  wives,  the  Devotos  and  the 
Hitts.  Though,  it  must  be  owned,  the  distinction  was  more 
nominal  than  real ;  for  the  Devotos  would  abuse  freedoms 
sometimes,  and  those  who  were  distinguished  by  the  name 
of  Hitts  were  often  very  honest.  At  the  same  time  there 
was  an  ingenious  treatise  came  out  with  the  title  of  «  Good 
Advice  to  Husbands,))  in  which  they  were  counselled  not  to 
trust  too  much  to  their  wives  owning  the  doctrine  of  unlim- 
ited conjugal  fidelity,  and  so  to  neglect  a  due  watchfulness 
over  the  manners  of  their  wives ;  that  the  greatest  security 
to  husbands  was  a  good  usage  of  their  wives  and  keeping 
them  from  temptation,  many  husbands  having  been  sufferers 
by  their  trusting  too  much  to  general  professions,  as  was 
exemplified  in  the  case  of  a  foolish  and  negligent  husband, 
who,  trusting  to  the  efficacy  of  this  principle,  was  undone 
by  his  wife's  elopement  from  him. 


An  Account  of  the  Conference  between  Mrs.  Bull  and 
Don  Diego. 

The  lawyers,  as  their  last  effort  to  put  off  the  composition, 
sent  Don  Diego  to  John.  Don  Diego  was  a  very  worthy 
gentleman,  a  friend  to  John,  his  mother,  and  present  wife, 
and,  therefore,  supposed  to  have  some  influence  over  her. 
He  had  been  ill-used  himself  by  John's  lawyers,  but  because 
of  some  animosity  to  Sir  Roger  was  against  the  composition. 
The  conference  between  him  and  Mrs.  Bull  was  word  for 
word  as  follows : 

Don  Diego. — Is  it  possible,  cousin  Bull,  that  you  can  for- 
get the  honorable  maxims  of  the  family  you  are  come  of, 
and  break  your  word  with  three  of  the  honestest,  best- 
meaning  persons  in  the  world — Esquires  South,  Frog,  and 
Hocus — that  have  sacrificed  their  interests  to  yours?  It  is 
base  to  take  advantage  of  their  simplicity  and  credulity,  and 
leave  them  in  the  lurch  at  last. 

Mrs.   Bull. — I  am  sure  they  have  left  my  family  in  a  bad 


THE   PIT  OF  LAW  261 

condition,  we  have  hardly  money  to  go  to  market ;  and  no- 
body will  take  our  words  for  sixpence.  A  very  fine  spark 
this  Esquire  South !  My  husband  took  him  in,  a  dirty  boy. 
It  was  the  business  of  half  the  servants  to  attend  him. 
The  rogue  did  bawl  and  make  such  a  noise:  sometimes  he 
fell  in  the  fire  and  burnt  his  face,  sometimes  broke  his  shins 
clambering  over  the  benches,  and  always  came  in  so  dirty, 
as  if  he  had  been  dragged  through  the  kennel  at  a  boarding- 
school.  He  lost  his  money  at  chuck-farthing,  shuffle-cap, 
and  all-fours;  sold  his  books,  pawned  his  linen,  which  we 
were  always  forced  to  redeem.  Then  the  whole  generation 
of  him  are  so  in  love  with  bagpipes  and  puppet-shows! 
I  wish  you  knew  what  my  husband  has  paid  at  the  pastry- 
cook's and  confectioner's  for  Naples  biscuits,  tarts,  custards, 
and  sweetmeats.  All  this  while  my  husband  considered  him 
as  a  gentleman  of  a  good  family  that  had  fallen  into  decay, 
gave  him  good  education,  and  has  settled  him  in  a  good 
creditable  way  of  living — having  procured  him,  by  his  in- 
terest, one  of  the  best  places  of  the  country.  And  what 
return,  think  you,  does  this  fine  gentleman  make  us?  he  will 
hardly  give  me  or  my  husband  a  good  word,  or  a  civil  ex- 
pression. Instead  of  Sir  and  Madam  (which,  though  I  say 
it,  is  our  due),  he  calls  us  «  goody  »  and  «  gaffer  »  such-a-one; 
says  he  did  us  a  great  deal  of  honor  to  board  with  us ;  huffs 
and  dings  at  such  a  rate,  because  we  will  not  spend  the  lit- 
tle we  have  left  to  get  him  the  title  and  estate  of  Lord 
Strutt ;  and  then  forsooth,  we  shall  have  the  honor  to  be  his 
woollen-drapers.  Besides,  Esquire  South  will  be  Esquire 
South  still;  fickle,  proud,  and  ungrateful.  If  he  behaves 
himself  so  when  he  depends  on  us  for  his  daily  bread,  can 
any  man  say  what  he  will  do  when  he  is  got  above  the 
world? 

D.  Diego. — And  would  you  lose  the  honor  of  so  noble  and 
generous  an  undertaking?  Would  you  rather  accept  this 
scandalous  composition,  and  trust  that  old  rogue,  Lewis 
Baboon? 

Mrs.  Bull. — Look  you,  Friend  Diego,  if  we  law  it  on  till 
Lewis  turns  honest,  I  am  afraid  our  credit  will  run  low  at 
Blackwell  Hall.  I  wish  every  man  had  his  own ;  but  I  still 
say,  that  Lord  Strutt's  money  shines  as  bright  and  chinks 


262  ARBUTHNOT 

as  well  as  Esquire  South's.  I  don't  know  any  other  hold 
that  we  tradesmen  have  of  these  great  folks  but  their  inter- 
est :  buy  dear  and  sell  cheap,  and  I  warrant  ye  you  will  keep 
your  customer.  The  worst  is,  that  Lord  Strutt's  servants 
have  got  such  a  haunt  about  that  old  rogue's  shop,  that  it 
will  cost  us  many  a  firkin  of  strong  beer  to  bring  them  back 
again ;  and  the  longer  they  are  in  a  bad  road,  the  harder  it 
will  be  to  get  them  out  of  it. 

D.  Diego. — But  poor  Frog,  what  has  he  done!  On  my 
conscience,  if  there  be  an  honest,  sincere  man  in  the  world, 
it  is  that  Frog. 

Mrs.  Bull. — I  think  I  need  not  tell  you  how  much  Frog 
has  been  obliged  to  our  family  from  his  childhood ;  he  car- 
ries his  head  high  now,  but  he  had  never  been  the  man  he 
is  without  our  help.  Ever  since  the  commencement  of  this 
lawsuit,  it  has  been  the  business  of  Hocus,  in  sharing  our 
expenses,  to  plead  for  Frog.  «  Poor  Frog,»  says  he,  «isin 
hard  circumstances,  he  has  a  numerous  family,  and  lives 
from  hand  to  mouth;  his  children  don't  eat  a  bit  of  good 
victuals  from  one  year's  end  to  the  other,  but  live  upon  salt 
herring,  sour  curd,  and  borecole.  He  does  his  utmost,  poor 
fellow,  to  keep  things  even  in  the  world,  and  has  exerted 
himself  beyond  his  ability  in  this  lawsuit ;  but  he  really  has 
not  wherewithal  to  go  on.  What  signifies  this  hundred 
pounds  ?  place  it  upon  your  side  of  the  account ;  it  is  a  great 
deal  to  poor  Frog,  and  a  trifle  to  you.»  This  has  been 
Hocus's  constant  language,  and  I  am  sure  he  has  had  obli- 
gations enough  to  us  to  have  acted  another  part. 

D.  Diego. — No  doubt  Hocus  meant  all  this  for  the  best, 
but  he  is  a  tender-hearted,  charitable  man ;  Frog  is  indeed 
in  hard  circumstances. 

Mrs.  Bull. — Hard  circumstances!  I  swear  this  is  pro- 
voking to  the  last  degree.  All  the  time  of  the  lawsuit,  as 
fast  as  I  have  mortgaged,  Frog  has  purchased :  from  a  plain 
tradesman,  with  a  shop,  warehouse,  and  a  country  hut  with 
a  dirty  fish-pond  at  the  end  of  it,  he  is  now  grown  a  very 
rich  country  gentleman,  with  a  noble  landed  estate,  noble 
palaces,  manors,  parks,  gardens,  and  farms,  finer  than  any 
we  were  ever  master  of.  Is  it  not  strange,  when  my  hus- 
band disbursed  great  sums  every  term,  Frog  should  be  pur- 


THE   PIT  OF   LAW  263 

chasing  some  new  farm  or  manor?  so  that  if  this  lawsuit 
lasts,  he  will  be  far  the  richest  man  in  his  country.  What 
is  worse  than  all  this,  he  steals  away  my  customers  every 
day ;  twelve  of  the  richest  and  the  best  have  left  my  shop 
by  his  persuasion,  and  whom,  to  my  certain  knowledge,  he 
has  under  bonds  never  to  return  again :  judge  you  if  this  be 
neighborly  dealing. 

D.  Diego. — Frog  is  indeed  pretty  close  in  his  dealings, 
but  very  honest :  you  are  so  touchy,  and  take  things  so  hotly, 
I  am  sure  there  must  be  some  mistake  in  this. 

Mrs.  Bull. — A  plaguy  one  indeed !  You  know,  and  have 
often  told  me  of  it,  how  Hocus  and  those  rogues  kept  my 
husband,  John  Bull,  drunk  for  five  years  together  with 
punch  and  strong  waters:  I  am  sure  he  never  went  one 
night  sober  to  bed,  till  they  got  him  to  sign  the  strangest 
deed  that  ever  you  saw  in  your  life.  The  methods  they 
took  to  manage  him  I'll  tell  you  another  time;  at  present 
I'll  read  only  the  writing. 


Articles  of  Agreement  betwixt  John  Bull,  Clothier,  and 
Nicholas  Frog,  Linen-draper. 

I.  That  for  maintaining  the  ancient  good  correspondence 
and  friendship  between  the  said  parties,  I,  Nicholas  Frog, 
do  solemnly  engage  and  promise  to  keep  peace  in  John 
Bull's  family;  that  neither  his  wife,  children,  nor  servants, 
give  him  any  trouble,  disturbance,  or  molestation  whatso- 
ever, but  to  oblige  them  all  to  do  their  duty  quietly  in  their 
respective  stations.  And  whereas  the  said  John  Bull,  from 
the  assured  confidence  that  he  has  in  my  friendship,  has 
appointed  me  executor  of  his  last  will  and  testament,  and 
guardian  to  his  children,  I  do  undertake  for  me,  my  heirs 
and  assigns,  to  see  the  same  duly  executed  and  performed, 
and  that  it  shall  be  unalterable  in  all  its  parts  by  John 
Bull,  or  anybody  else :  for  that  purpose  it  shall  be  lawful 
and  allowable  for  me  to  enter  his  house  at  any  hour  of  the 
day  or  night,  to  break  open  bars,  bolts,  and  doors,  chests  of 
drawers,  and  strong  boxes,  in  order  to  secure  the  peace  of 
my  friend  John  Bull's  family,  and  to  see  his  will  duly  exe- 
cuted. 


264  ARBUTHNOT 

II.  In  consideration  of  which  kind  neighborly  office  of 
Nicholas  Frog,  in  that  he  has  been  pleased  to  accept  of  the 
aforesaid  trust,  I,  John  Bull,  having  duly  considered  that 
my  friend,  Nicholas  Frog,  at  this  time  lives  in  a  marshy  soil 
and  unwholesome  air,  infested  with  fogs  and  damps,  de- 
structive of  the  health  of  himself,  wife,  and  children,  do 
bind  and  oblige  me,  my  heirs  and  assigns,  to  purchase  for 
the  said  Nicholas  Frog,  with  the  best  and  readiest  of  my 
cash  bonds,  mortgages,  goods  and  chattels,  a  landed  estate, 
with  parks,  gardens,  palaces,  rivers,  fields,  and  outlets,  con- 
sisting of  as  large  extent  as  the  said  Nicholas  Frog  shall 
think  fit.  And  whereas  the  said  Nicholas  Frog  is  at  present 
hemmed  in  too  close  by  the  grounds  of  Lewis  Baboon,  mas- 
ter of  the  science  of  defence,  I,  the  said  John  Bull,  do  oblige 
myself  with  the  readiest  of  my  cash,  to  purchase  and  en- 
close the  said  grounds,  for  as  many  fields  and  acres  as  the 
said  Nicholas  shall  think  fit;  to  the  intent  that  the  said 
Nicholas  may  have  free  egress  and  regress,  without  let  or 
molestation,  suitable  to  the  demands  of  himself  and  family. 

III.  Furthermore,  the  said  John  Bull  obliges  himself  to 
make  the  country  neighbors  of  Nicholas  Frog  allot  a  cer- 
tain part  of  yearly  rents,  to  pay  for  the  repairs  of  the  said 
landed  estate,  to  the  intent  that  his  good  friend,  Nicholas 
Frog,  may  be  eased  of  all  charges. 

IV.  And  whereas  the  said  Nicholas  Frog  did  contract 
with  the  deceased  Lord  Strutt  about  certain  liberties,  privi- 
leges, and  immunities,  formerly  in  the  possession  of  the  said 
John  Bull,  I,  the  said  John  Bull,  do  freely,  by  these  pres- 
ents, renounce,  quit,  and  make  over  to  the  said  Nicholas, 
the  liberties,  privileges,  and  immunities  contracted  for,  in 
as  full  a  manner,  as  if  they  never  had  belonged  to  mei 

V.  The  said  John  Bull  obliges  himself,  his  heirs  and 
assigns,  not  to  sell  one  rag  of  broad  or  coarse  cloth  to  any 
gentleman  within  the  neighborhood  of  the  said  Nicholas, 
except  in  such  quantities  and  such  rates  as  the  said  Nicholas 
shall  think  fit. 

Signed  and  sealed,  John  Bull, 

Nic.  Frog. 

The  reading  of  this  paper  put  Mrs.  Bull  in  such  a  passion 


THE  PIT   OF   LAW  265 

that  she  fell  downright  into  a  fit,  and  they  were  forced  to 
give  her  a  good  quantity  of  the  spirit  of  hartshorn  before 
she  recovered. 

•  D.  Diego. — Why  in  such  a  passion,  cousin?  considering 
your  circumstances  at  that  time,  I  don't  think  this  such  an 
unreasonable  contract.  You  see  Frog,  for  all  this,  is  relig- 
iously true  to  his  bargain ;  he  scorns  to  hearken  to  any  com- 
position without  your  privacy. 

Mrs.  Bull. — You  know  the  contrary.     Read  that  letter. 

[Reads  the  superscription.]  For  Lewis  Baboon,  Master  of 
the  Noble  Science  of  Defence. 
«Sir. — I  understand  that  you  are  at  this  time  treating 
with  my  friend  John  Bull,  about  restoring  the  Lord  Strutt's 
custom,  and  besides  allowing  him  certain  privileges  of  parks 
and  fish-ponds ;  I  wonder  how  you  that  are  a  man  that  knows 
the  world,  can  talk  with  that  simple  fellow.  He  has  been 
my  bubble  these  twenty  years,  and  to  my  certain  knowl- 
edge, understands  no  more  of  his  own  affairs  than  a  child  in 
swaddling-clothes.  I  know  he  has  got  a  sort  of  a  pragmat- 
ical silly  jade  of  a  wife,  that  pretends  to  take  him  out  of  my 
hands ;  but  you  and  she  both  will  find  yourselves  mistaken ; 
I'll  find  those  that  shall  manage  her;  and  for  him,  he  dares 
as  well  be  hanged  as  make  one  step  in  his  affairs  without 
my  consent.  If  you  will  give  me  what  you  promised  him, 
I  will  make  all  things  easy,  and  stop  the  deeds  of  ejectment 
against  Lord  Strutt ;  if  you  will  not,  take  what  follows.  I 
shall  have  a  good  action  against  you,  for  pretending  to  rob 
me  of  my  bubble.     Take  this  warning  from 

«  Your  loving  friend, 

«Nic.   Frog.» 

I  am  told,  cousin  Diego,  you  are  one  of  those  that  have 
undertaken  to  manage  me,  and  that  you  have  said  you  will 
carry  a  green  bag  yourself,  rather  than  we  shall  make  an 
end  of  our  lawsuit:  I'll  teach  them  and  you  too  to  manage. 

D.  Diego. — For  God's  sake,  madam,  why  so  choleric? 
I  say  this  letter  is  some  forge^ ;  it  never  entered  into  the 
head  of  that  honest  man,  Nic.  Frog,  to  do  any  such  thing. 

Mrs.  Bull. — I  can't  abide  you.     You  have  been  railing 


266  ARBUTHNOT 

these  twenty  years  at  Squire  South,  Frog,  and  Hocus,  call- 
ing them  rogues  and  pickpockets,  and  now  they  are  turned 
the  honestest  fellows  in  the  world.  What  is  the  meaning 
of  all  this? 

D.  Diego. — Pray  tell  me  how  you  came  to  employ  this  Sir 
Roger  in  your  affairs,  and  not  think  of  your  old  friend 
Diego? 

Mrs.  Bull. — So,  so,  there  it  pinches.  To  tell  you  truth, 
I  have  emploj-ed  Sir  Roger  in  several  weighty  affairs,  and 
have  found  him  trusty  and  honest,  and  the  poor  man  always 
scorned  to  take  a  farthing  of  me.  I  have  abundance  that 
profess  great  zeal,  but  they  are  damnable  greedy  of  the 
pence.  My  husband  and  I  are  now  in  such  circumstances, 
that  we  must  be  served  upon  cheaper  terms  than  we  have 
been. 

D.  Diego. — Well,  cousin,  I  find  I  can  do  no  good  with 
you ;  I  am  sorry  that  you  will  ruin  yourself  by  trusting  this 
Sir  Roger. 


HOW  THE  GUARDIANS  OF  THE  DECEASED  MRS.  BULL'S  THREE 
DAUGHTERS  CAME  TO  JOHN,  AND  WHAT  ADVICE  THEY  GAVE 
HIM;  WHEREIN  IS  BRIEFLY  TREATED  THE  CHARACTERS  OF 
THE  THREE  DAUGHTERS.  ALSO  JOHN  BULL'S  ANSWER  TO 
THE   THREE    GUARDIANS. 

I  told  you  in  a  former  chapter  that  Mrs.  Bull,  before  she 
departed  this  life,  had  blessed  John  with  three  daughters. 
I  need  not  here  repeat  their  names,  neither  would  I  willingly 
use  any  scandalous  reflections  upon  young  ladies,  whose 
reputations  ought  to  be  very  tenderly  handled ;  but  the  char- 
acters of  these  were  so  well  known  in  the  neighborhood,  that 
it  is  doing  them  no  injury  to  make  a  short  description  of  them. 
The  eldest  was  a  termagant,  imperious,  prodigal,  lewd, 
profligate  wench,  as  ever  breathed;  she  used  to  rantipole 
about  the  house,  pinch  the  children,  kick  the  servants,  and 
torture  the  cats  and  the  dogs;  she  would  rob  her  father's 
strong  box,  for  money  to  give  the  young  fellows  that  she 
was  fond  of.  She  had  a  noble  air,  and  something  great  in 
her  mien,  but  such  a  noisome  infectious  breath,  as  threw  all 
the  servants  that  dressed  her  into  consumptions;    if  she 


THE   PIT   OF   LAW  267 

smelt  to  the  freshest  nosegay,  it  would  shrivel  and  wither 
as  it  had  been  blighted :  she  used  to  come  home  in  her  cups, 
and  break  the  china,  and  the  looking-glasses;  and  was  of 
such  an  irregular  temper,  and  so  entirely  given  up  to  her 
passion,  that  you  might  argue  as  well  with  the  North  wind, 
as  with  her  ladyship:  so  expensive,  that  the  income  of  three 
dukedoms  was  not  enough  to  supply  her  extravagance. 
Hocus  loved  her  best,  believing  her  to  be  his  own,  got  upon 
the  body  of  Mrs.  Bull. 

The  second  daughter,  born  a  year  after  her  sister,  was  a 
peevish,  froward,  ill-conditioned  creature  as  ever  was,  ugly 
as  the  devil,  lean,  haggard,  pale,  with  saucer  eyes,  a  sharp 
nose,  and  hunched  backed;  but  active,  sprightly,  and  dili- 
gent about  her  affairs.  Her  ill  complexion  was  occasioned 
by  her  bad  diet,  which  was  coffee  morning,  noon,  and  night. 
She  never  rested  quietly  a-bed,  but  used  to  disturb  the 
whole  family  with  shrieking  out  in  her  dreams,  and  plague 
them  next  day  with  interpreting  them,  for  she  took  them  all 
for  gospel;  she  would  cry  out  « Murder !  »  and  disturb  the 
whole  neighborhood ;  and  when  John  came  running  down- 
stairs to  inquire  what  the  matter  was,  nothing  forsooth,  only 
her  maid  had  stuck  a  pin  wrong  in  her  gown ;  she  turned 
away  one  servant  for  putting  too  much  oil  in  her  salad,  and 
another  for  putting  too  little  salt  in  her  water-gruel ;  but 
such  as  by  flattery  had  procured  her  esteem,  she  would  in- 
dulge in  the  greatest  crime.  Her  father  had  two  coachmen ; 
when  one  was  in  the  coach -box,  if  the  coach  swung  but  the 
least  to  one  side,  she  used  to  shriek  so  loud,  that  all  the 
street  concluded  she  was  overturned;  but  though  the  other 
was  eternally  drunk,  and  had  overturned  the  whole  family, 
she  was  very  angry  with  her  father  for  turning  him  away. 
Then  she  used  to  carry  tales  and  stories  from  one  to  an- 
other, till  she  had  set  the  whole  neighborhood  together  by 
the  ears;  and  this  was  the  only  diversion  she  took  pleasure 
in.  She  never  went  abroad,  but  she  brought  home  such  a 
bundle  of  monstrous  lies,  as  would  have  amazed  any  mortal, 
but  such  as  knew  her :  of  a  whale  that  had  swallowed  a  fleet 
of  ships;  of  the  lions  being  let  out  of  the  Tower,  to  destroy 
the  Protestant  religion;  of  the  Pope's  being  seen  in  a 
brandy-shop  at  Wapping ;  and  a  prodigious  strong  man  that 


268  ARBUTHNOT 

was  going  to  shove  down  the  cupola  of  St.  Paul's;  of  three 
millions  of  five  pound  pieces  that  Squire  South  had  found 
under  an  old  wall;  of  blazing  stars,  flying  dragons,  and 
abundance  of  such  stuff.  All  the  servants  ip  the  family 
made  high  court  to  her,  for  she  domineered  there,  and  turned 
out  and  in  whom  she  pleased ;  only  there  was  an  old  grudge 
between  her  and  Sir  Roger,  whom  she  mortally  hated  and 
used  to  hire  fellows  to  squirt  kennel  water  upon  him  as  he 
passed  along  the  streets;  so  that  he  was  forced  constantly  to 
wear  a  surtout  of  oiled  cloth,  by  which  means  he  came  home 
pretty  clean,  except  where  the  surtout  was  a  little  scanty. 

As  for  the  third  she  was  a  thief  and  a  common  mercenary. 
She  had  no  respect  of  persons :  a  prince  or  a  porter  was  all 
one,  according  as  they  paid ;  yea,  she  would  leave  the  finest 
gentleman  in  the  world  to  go  to  an  ugly  fellow  for  sixpence 
more.  In  the  practice  of  her  profession  she  had  amassed 
vast  magazines  of  all  sorts  of  things :  she  had  above  five 
hundred  suits  of  fine  clothes,  and  yet  went  abroad  like  a 
cinder  wench.  She  robbed  and  starved  all  the  servants,  so 
that  nobody  could  live  near  her. 

So  much  for  John's  three  daughters,  which  you  will  say 
were  rarities  to  be  fond  of.  Yet  Nature  will  show  itself. 
Nobody  could  blame  their  relations  for  taking  care  of  them, 
and  therefore  it  was  that  Hocus,  with  two  other  of  the  guar- 
dians, thought  it  their  duty  to  take  care  of  the  interest  of 
the  three  girls  and  give  John  their  best  advice  before  he 
compounded  the  lawsuit. 

Hocus. — What  makes  you  so  shy  cf  late,  my  good  friend? 
There's  nobody  loves  you  better  than  I,  nor  has  taken  more 
pains  in  your  affairs.  As  I  hope  to  be  saved  I  would  do 
anything  to  serve  you ;  I  would  crawl  upon  all  fours  to  serve 
you ;  I  have  spent  my  health  and  maternal  estate  in  your 
service.  I  have,  indeed,  a  small  pittance  left,  with  which  I 
might  retire,  and  with  as  good  a  conscience  as  any  man; 
but  the  thought  of  this  disgraceful  composition  so  touches 
me  to  the  quick  that  I  cannot  sleep.  After  I  had  brought 
the  cause  to  the  last  stroke,  that  one  verdict  more  had  quite 
ruined  old  Lewis  and  Lord  Strutt,  and  put  you  in  the  quiet 
possession  of  everything — then  to  compound !  I  cannot  bear 
it.     This  cause  was  my  favorite ;   I  had  set  my  heart  upon 


THE   PIT   OF   LAW  269 

it ;  it  is  like  an  only  child ;  I  cannot  endure  it  should  mis- 
carry. For  God's  sake  consider  only  to  what  a  dismal  con- 
dition old  Lewis  is  brought.  He  is  at  an  end  of  all  his  cash; 
his  attorneys  have  hardly  one  trick  left ;  they  are  at  an  end 
of  all  their  chicane ;  besides,  he  has  both  his  law  and  his 
daily  bread  now  upon  trust.  Hold  out  only  one  term  longer, 
and  I'll  warrant  you  before  the  next  we  shall  have  him  in 
the  Fleet.  I'll  bring  him  to  the  pillory;  his  ears  shall  pay 
for  his  perjuries.  For  the  love  of  God  don't  compound. 
Let  me  be  damned  if  you  have  a  friend  in  the  world  that 
loves  you  better  than  I.  There  is  nobody  can  say  I  am 
covetous  or  that  I  have  any  interests  to  pursue  but  yours. 

Second  Guardian. — There  is  nothing  so  plain  as  that  this 
Lewis  has  a  design  to  ruin  all  his  neighboring  tradesmen, 
and  at  this  time  he  has  such  a  prodigious  income  by  his 
trade  of  all  kinds,  that,  if  there  is  not  some  stop  put  to  his 
exorbitant  riches,  he  will  monopolize  everything;  nobody 
will  be  able  to  sell  a  yard  of  drapery  or  mercery  ware  but 
himself.  I  then  hold  it  advisable  that  you  continue  the  law- 
suit and  burst  him  at  once.  My  concern  for  the  three  poor 
motherless  children  obliges  me  to  give  you  this  advice ;  for 
their  estates,  poor  girls,  depend  upon  the  success  of  this 
cause. 

Third  Guardian. — I  own  this  Writ  of  Ejectment  has  cost 
dear,  but  then  consider  it  is  a  jewel  well  worth  the  purchas- 
ing at  the  price  of  all  you  have.  None  but  Mr.  Bull's  de- 
clared enemies  can  say  he  has  any  other  security  for  his 
clothing  trade  but  the  ejectment  of  Lord  Strutt.  The  only 
question,  then,  that  remains  to  be  decided  is:  who  shall 
stand  the  expenses  of  the  suit?  To  which  the  answer  is  as 
plain :  who  but  he  that  is  to  have  the  advantage  of  the  sen- 
tence? When  Esquire  South  has  got  possession  of  his  title 
and  honor  is  not  John  Bull  to  be  his  clothier?  Who,  then, 
but  John  ought  to  be  put  in  possession?  Ask  but  any  indif- 
ferent gentleman,  Who  ought  to  bear  his  charges  at  law?  and 
he  will  readily  answer,  His  tradesmen.  I  do  therefore  af- 
firm, and  I  will  go  to  death  with  it,  that,  being  his  clothier, 
you  ought  to  put  him  in  quiet  possession  of  his  estate,  and 
with  the  same  generous  spirit  you  have  begun  it  complete 
the  good  work.     If  you  persist  in  the  bad  measures  you  are 


270  ARBUTHNOT 

now  in,    what  must    become  of  the  three  poor  orphans? 
My  heart  bleeds  for  the  poor  girls. 

John  Bull. — You  are  all  very  eloquent  persons,  but  give 
me  leave  to  tell  you  you  express  a  great  deal  more  concern 
for  the  three  girls  than  for  me.  I  think  my  interest  ought 
to  be  considered  in  the  first  place.  As  for  you,  Hocus,  I 
can't  but  say  you  have  managed  my  lawsuit  with  great  ad- 
dress and  much  to  my  honor,  and,  though  I  say  it,  you  have 
been  well  paid  for  it.  Why  must  the  burden  be  taken  off 
Frog's  back  and  laid  upon  my  shoulders?  He  can  drive 
about  his  own  parks  and  fields  in  his  gilt  chariot,  when  I 
have  been  forced  to  mortgage  my  estate ;  his  note  will  go 
farther  than  my  bond.  Is  it  not  matter  of  fact,  that  from 
the  richest  tradesman  in  all  the  country,  I  am  reduced  to 
beg  and  borrow  from  scriveners  and  usurers  that  suck  the 
heart,  blood,  and  guts  out  of  me,  and  what  is  all  this  for? 
Did  you  like  Frog's  countenance  better  than  mine?  Was 
not  I  your  old  friend  and  relation?  Have  I  not  presented 
you  nobly?  Have  I  not  clad  your  whole  family?  Have  you 
not  had  a  hundred  yards  at  a  time  of  the  finest  cloth  in  my 
shop?  Why  must  the  rest  of  the  tradesmen  be  not  only 
indemnified  from  charges,  but  forbid  to  go  on  with  their 
own  business,  and  what  is  more  their  concern  than  mine? 
As  to  holding  out  this  term  I  appeal  to  your  own  conscience, 
has  not  that  been  your  constant  discourse  these  six  years, 
«  One  term  more  and  old  Lewis  goes  to  pot? »  If  thou  art  so 
fond  of  my  cause  be  generous  for  once,  and  lend  me  a  brace 
of  thousands.  Ah,  Hocus!  Hocus!  I  know  thee:  not  a  sous 
to  save  me  from  jail,  I  trow.  Look  ye,  gentlemen,  I  have 
lived  with  credit  in  the  world,  and  it  grieves  my  heart  never 
to  stir  out  of  my  doors  but  to  be  pulled  by  the  sleeve  by  some 
rascally  dun  or  other.  «Sir,  remember  my  bill.  There's 
a  small  concern  of  a  thousand  pounds;  I  hope  you  think 
on't,  sir.w  And  to  have  these  usurers  transact  my  debts  at 
coffee-houses  and  ale-houses,  as  if  I  were  going  to  break  up 
shop.  Lord!  that  ever  the  rich,  the  generous  John  Bull, 
clothier,  the  envy  of  all  his  neighbors,  should  be  brought  to 
compound  his  debts  for  five  shillings  in  the  pound,  and  to 
have  his  name  in  an  advertisement  for  a  statute  of  bank- 
rupt.    The  thought  of  it  makes  me  mad.     I  have  read  some- 


THE   PIT   OF   LAW  271 

where  in  the  Apocrypha,  «  That  one  should  not  consult  with 
a  woman  touching  her  of  whom  she  is  jealous ;  nor  with  a 
merchant  concerning  exchange ;  nor  with  a  buyer,  of  sell- 
ing; nor  with  an  unmerciful  man,  of  kindness,  etc.»  I  could 
have  added  one  thing  more:  nor  with  an  attorney  about 
compounding  a  lawsuit.  The  ejectment  of  Lord  Strutt  will 
never  do.  The  evidence  is  crimp;  the  witnesses  swear 
backwards  and  forwards,  and  contradict  themselves;  and 
his  tenants  stick  by  him.  One  tells  me  that  I  must  carry  on 
my  suit,  because  Lewis  is  poor ;  another,  because  he  is  still 
too  rich:  whom  shall  I  believe?  I  am  sure  of  one  thing, 
that  a  penny  in  the  purse  is  the  best  friend  John  can  have 
at  last,  and  who  can  say  that  this  will  be  the  last  suit  I  shall 
be  engaged  in?  Besides,  if  this  ejectment  were  practicable 
is  it  reasonable  that,  when  Esquire  South  is  losing  his  money 
to  sharpers  and  pickpockets,  going  about  the  country  with 
fiddlers  and  buffoons,  and  squandering  his  income  with 
hawks  and  dogs,  I  should  lay  out  the  fruits  of  my  honest 
industry  in  a  lawsuit  for  him,  only  upon  the  hopes  of  being 
his  clothier?  And  when  the  cause  is  over  I  shall  not  have 
the  benefit  of  my  project  for  want  of  money  to  go  to  market. 
Look  ye,  gentlemen,  John  Bull  is  but  a  plain  man,  but  John 
Bull  knows  when  he  is  ill  used.  I  know  the  infirmity  of  our 
family :  we  are  apt  to  play  the  boon  companion  and  throw 
away  our  money  in  our  cups.  But  it  was  an  unfair  thing 
in  you,  gentlemen,  to  take  advantage  of  my  weakness,  to 
keep  ra  parcel  of  roaring  bullies  about  me  day  and  night, 
with  huzzas  and  hunting  horns,  and  ringing  the  changes  on 
butcher's  cleavers;  never  let  me  cool,  and  make  me  set  my 
hand  to  papers  when  I  could  hardly  hold  my  pen.  There 
will  come  a  day  of  reckoning  for  all  that  proceeding.  In 
the  meantime,  gentlemen,  I  beg  you  will  let  me  into  my 
affairs  a  little,  and  that  you  would  not  grudge  me  the  small 
remainder  of  a  very  great  estate. 


Esquire  South's  Message  and  Letter  to  Mrs.  Bull. 

The  arguments  used  by  Hocus  and  the  rest  of  the  guardians 
had  hitherto  proved  insufficient.  John  and  his  wife  could 
not  be  persuaded  to  bear  the  expense  of  Esquire  South's 


272  ARBUTHNOT 

lawsuit.  They  thought  it  reasonable  that,  since  he  was  to 
have  the  honor  and  advantage,  he  should  bear  the  greatest 
share  of  the  charges,  and  retrench  what  he  lost  to  sharpers 
and  spent  upon  country  dances  and  puppet  plays  to  apply 
it  to  that  use.  This  was  not  very  grateful  to  the  esquire ; 
therefore,  as  the  last  experiment,  he  was  resolved  to  send 
Signior  Benenato,  master  of  his  foxhounds,  to  Mrs.  Bull  to 
try  what  good  he  could  do  with  her.  This  Signior  Benenato 
had  all  the  qualities  of  a  fine  gentleman  that  were  set  to 
charm  a  lady's  heart,  and  if  any  person  in  the  world  could 
have  persuaded  her  it  was  he.  But  such  was  her  unshaken 
fidelity  to  her  husband,  and  the  constant  purpose  of  her 
mind  to  pursue  his  interest,  that  the  most  refined  arts  of 
gallantry  that  were  practised  could  not  seduce  her  heart. 
The  necklaces,  diamond  crosses,  and  rich  bracelets  that  were 
offered  she  rejected  with  the  utmost  scorn  and  disdain. 
The  music  and  serenades  that  were  given  her  sounded  more 
ungratefully  in  her  ears  than  the  noise  of  a  screech  owl. 
However,  she  received  Esquire  South's  letter  by  the  hands 
of  Signior  Benenato  with  that  respect  which  became  his 
quality.  The  copy  of  the  letter  is  as  follows,  in  which  you 
will  observe  he  changes  a  little  his  usual  style : 

Madam, — -The  Writ  of  Ejectment  against  Philip  Baboon 
(pretended  Lord  Strutt)  is  just  ready  to  pass.  There  want 
but  a  few  necessary  forms  and  a  verdict  or  two  more  to  put 
me  in  the  quiet  possession  of  my  honor  and  estate.  I  ques- 
tion not  but  that,  according  to  your  wonted  generosity  and 
goodness,  you  will  give  it  the  finishing  stroke:  an  honor 
that  I  would  grudge  anybody  but  yourself.  In  order  to 
ease  you  of  some  part  of  the  charges,  I  promise  to  furnish 
pen,  ink,  and  paper,  provided  you  pay  for  the  stamps.  Be- 
sides, I  have  ordered  my  stewards  to  pay  out  of  the  readiest 
and  best  of  my  rents  five  pounds  ten  shillings  a  year  till  my 
suit  is  finished.  I  wish  you  health  and  happiness,  being 
with  due  respect, 

Madam,  your  assured  friend, 

South. 


THE   PIT   OF   LAW  273 


Conversation  between  John  Bull  and  his  wife.' 

Mrs.  Bull. — Though  our  affairs,  honey,  are  in  a  bad  condi- 
tion, I  have  a  better  opinion  of  them  since  you  seemed  to  be 
convinced  of  the  ill  course  you  have  been  in,  and  are  re- 
solved to  submit  to  proper  remedies.  But  when  I  consider 
your  immense  debts,  your  foolish  bargains,  and  the  general 
disorder  of  your  business,  I  have  a  curiosity  to  know  what 
fate  or  chance  has  brought  you  into  this  condition. 

John  Bull. — I  wish  you  would  talk  of  some  other  subject, 
the  thought  of  it  makes  me  mad;  our  family  must  have 
their  run. 

Mrs.  Bull. — But  such  a  strange  thing  as  this  never  hap- 
pened to  any  of  your  family  before :  they  have  had  lawsuits, 
but,  though  they  spent  the  income,  they  never  mortgaged 
the  stock.  Sure,  you  must  have  some  of  the  Norman  or 
the  Norfolk  blood  in  you.  Prithee,  give  me  some  account 
of  these  matters. 

John  Bull. — Who  could  help  it?  There  lives  not  such  a 
fellow  by  bread  as  that  old  Lewis  Baboon :  he  is  the  most 
cheating,  contentious  rogue  upon  the  face  of  the  earth. 
You  must  know,  one  day,  as  Nic.  Frog  and  I  were  over  a 
bottle  making  up  an  old  quarrel,  the  old  fellow  would  needs 
have  lis  drink  a  bottle  of  his  champagne,  and  so  one  after 
another,  till  my  friend  Nic.  and  I,  not  being  used  to  such 
heady  stuff,  got  very  drunk.  Lewis  all  the  while,  either  by 
the  strength  of  his  brain  or  flinching  his  glass,  kept  himself 
sober  as  a  judge.  «My  worthy  friends,))  quoth  Lewis, 
«  henceforth  let  us  live  neighborly ;  I  am  as  peaceable  and 
quiet  as  a  lamb  of  my  own  temper,  but  it  has  been  my  mis- 
fortune to  live  among  quarrelsome  neighbors.  There  is 
but  one  thing  can  make  us  fall  out,  and  that  is  the  inheri- 
tance of  Lord  Strutt's  estate:  I  am  content,  for  peace's  sake, 
to  waive  my  right,  and  submit  to  any  expedient  to  prevent 
a  lawsuit;  I  think  an  equal  division  will  be  the  fairest  way.» 
«Well  moved,  Old  Lewis, »  quoth  Frog,  «and  I  hope  my 

1  The  history  of  the  Partition  Treaty  ;  suspicions  at  that  time  that  the 
French  King  intended  to  take  the  whole  and  that  he  revealed  the  secret 
to  the  Court  of  Spain. 
18 


274  ARBUTHNOT 

friend  John  here  will  not  be  refractory.))  At  the  same  time 
he  clapped  me  on  the  back,  and  slabbered  me  all  over  from 
cheek  to  cheek  with  his  great  tongue.  «  Do  as  you  please, 
gentlemen,*  quoth  I,  « 'tis  all  one  to  John  Bull.»  We  agreed 
to  part  that  night,  and  next  morning  to  meet  at  the  corner 
of  Lord  Strutt's  park  wall,  with  our  surveying  instruments, 
which  accordingly  we  did.  Old  Lewis  carried  a  chain  and 
a  semicircle;  Nic,  paper,  rulers,  and  a  lead  pencil;  and  I 
followed  at  some  distance  with  a  long  pole.  We  began  first 
with  surveying  the  meadow  grounds,  afterwards  we  meas- 
ured the  cornfields,  close  by  close ;  then  we  proceeded  to 
the  woodlands,  the  copper  and  tin  mines.  All  this  while 
Nic.  laid  down  everything  exactly  upon  paper,  calculated 
the  acres  and  roods  to  a  great  nicety.  When  we  had  fin- 
ished the  land,  we  were  going  to  break  into  the  house  and 
gardens,  to  take  an  inventory  of  his  plate,  pictures,  and 
other  furniture. 

Mrs.  Bull. — What  said  Lord  Strutt  to  all  this? 

John  Bull. — As  we  had  almost  finished  our  concern,  we 
were  accosted  by  some  of  Lord  Strutt's  servants.  «  Hey- 
day! what's  here?  what  a  devil's  the  meaning  of  all  these 
trangrams  and  gimcracks,  gentlemen?  What  in  the  name 
of  wonder,  are  you  going  about,  jumping  over  my  master's 
hedges,  and  running  your  lines  cross  his  grounds?  If  you 
are  at  any  field  pastime,  you  might  have  asked  leave :  my 
master  is  a  civil  well-bred  person  as  any  is.» 

Mrs.  Bull. — What  could  you  answer  to  this? 

John  Bull. — Why,  truly,  my  neighbor  Frog  and  I  were 
still  hot-headed ;  we  told  him  his  master  was  an  old  doting 
puppy,  that  minded  nothing  of  his  own  business ;  that  we 
were  surveying  his  estate,  and  settling  it  for  him,  since  he 
would  not  do  it  himself.  Upon  this  there  happened  a  quar- 
rel, but  we  being  stronger  than  they,  sent  them  away  with 
a  flea  in  their  ear.  They  went  home  and  told  their  master. 
« My  lord,»  say  they,  « there  are  three  odd  sort  of  fellows 
going  about  your  grounds  with  the  strangest  machines  that 
ever  we  beheld  in  our  life :  I  suppose  they  are  going  to  rob 
your  orchard,  fell  your  trees,  or  drive  away  your  cattle. 
They  told  us  strange  things  of  settling  your  estate — one  is 
a  lusty  old  fellow  in  a  black  wig,  with  a  black  beard,  without 


THE   PIT   OF   LAW  275 

teeth;  there's  another,  thick  squat  fellow,  in  trunk  hose; 
the  third  is  a  little,  long-nosed,  thin  man  (I  was  then 
lean,  being  just  come  out  of  a  fit  of  sickness) — I  sup- 
pose it  is  fit  to  send  after  them,  lest  they  carry  something 
away?» 

Mrs.  Bull. — I  fancy  this  put  the  old  fellow  in  a  rare 
tweague. 

John  Bull.— Weak  as  he  was,  he  called  for  his  long 
Toledo,  swore  and  bounced  about  the  room :  «  '  Sdeath !  what 
am  I  come  to,  to  be  affronted  so  by  my  tradesmen?  I  know 
the  rascals:  my  barber,  clothier,  and  linen-draper  dispose 
of  my  estate!  Bring  hither  my  blunderbuss;  I'll  warrant 
ye  you  shall  see  daylight  through  them.  Scoundrels !  dogs ! 
the  scum  of  the  earth!  Frog,  that  was  my  father's  kitchen- 
boy,  he  pretend  to  meddle  with  my  estate — with  my  will! 
Ah,  poor  Strutt!  what  art  thou  come  to  at  last?  Thou  hast 
lived  too  long  in  the  world,  to  see  thy  age  and  infirmity  so 
despised !  How  will  the  ghosts  of  my  noble  ancestors  re- 
ceive these  tidings? — they  cannot,  they  must  not  sleep 
quietly  in  their  graves.))  In  short,  the  old  gentleman  was 
carried  off  in  a  fainting  fit,  and  after  bleeding  in  both  arms 
hardly  recovered. 

Mrs.  Bull. — Really  this  was  a  very  extraordinary  way  of 
proceeding!     I  long  to  hear  the  rest  of  it. 

John  Bull. — After  we  had  come  back  to  the  tavern,  and 
taken  t'other  bottle  of  champagne,  we  quarrelled  a  little 
about  the  division  of  the  estate.  Lewis  hauled  and  pulled 
the  map  on  one  side  and  Frog  and  I  on  t'other,  till  we  had 
like  to  have  tore  the  parchment  to  pieces.  At  last  Lewis 
pulled  out  a  pair  of  great  tailor's  s'hears  and  dipt  a  corner 
for  himself,  which  he  said  was  a  manor  that  lay  convenient 
for  him,  and  left  Frog  and  me  the  rest  to  dispose  of  as  we 
pleased.  We  were  overjoyed  to  think  Lewis  was  contented 
with  so  little,  not  smelling  what  was  at  the  bottom  of  the 
plot.  There  happened,  indeed,  an  incident  that  gave  us 
some  disturbance.  A  cunning  fellow,  one  of  my  servants, 
two  days  after,  peeping  through  the  keyhole,  observed  that 
old  Lewis  had  stole  away  our  part  of  the  map,  and  saw  him 
fiddling  and  turning  the  map  from  one  corner  to  the  other, 
trying  to  join  the  two  pieces  together  again.     He  was  mut- 


276  ARBUTHNOT 

tering  something  to  himself,  which  he  did  not  well  hear, 
only  these  words,  «'Tis  great  pity!  'tis  great  pity!»  My 
servant  added  that  he  believed  this  had  some  ill  meaning. 
I  told  him  he  was  a  coxcomb,  always  pretending  to  be  wiser 
than  his  companions.  Lewis  and  I  are  good  friends,  he's 
an  honest  fellow,  and  I  daresay  will  stand  to  his  bargain. 
The  sequel  of  the  story  proved  this  fellow's  suspicion  to  be 
too  well  grounded ;  for  Lewis  revealed  our  whole  secret  to 
the  deceased  Lord  Strutt,  who  in  reward  for  his  treachery, 
and  revenge  to  Frog  and  me,  settled  his  whole  estate  upon 
the  present  Philip  Baboon.  Then  we  understood  what  he 
meant  by  piecing  the  map  together. 

Mrs.  Bull. — And  were  you  surprised  at  this?  Had  not 
Lord  Strutt  reason  to  be  angry?  Would  you  have  been 
contented  to  have  been  so  used  yourself? 

John  Bull. — Why,  truly,  wife,  it  was  not  easily  recon- 
ciled to  the  common  methods ;  but  then  it  was  the  fashion 
to  do  such  things.  I  have  read  of  your  golden  age,  your  sil- 
ver age,  etc. ;  one  might  justly  call  this  the  age  of  the  lawyers. 
There  was  hardly  a  man  of  substance  in  all  the  country 
but  had  a  counterfeit  that  pretended  to  his  estate.  As  the 
philosophers  say  that  there  is  a  duplicate  of  every  terrestrial 
animal  at  sea,  so  it  was  in  this  age  of  the  lawyers :  there 
were  at  least  two  of  everything;  nay,  o'  my  conscience, 
I  think  there  were  three  Esquire  Hackums  at  one  time.  In 
short,  it  was  usual  for  a  parcel  of  fellows  to  meet  and  dis- 
pose of  the  whole  estates  in  the  country.  « This  lies  con- 
venient for  me,  Tom.  Thou  wouldst  do  more  good  with 
that,  Dick,  than  the  old  fellow  that  has  it. »  So  to  law  they 
went  with  the  true  owners:  the  lawyers  got  well  by  it; 
everybody  else  was  undone.  It  was  a  common  thing  for  an 
honest  man  when  he  came  home  at  night  to  find  another 
fellow  domineering  in  his  family,  hectoring  his  servants, 
and  calling  for  supper.  In  every  house  you  might  observe 
two  Sosias  quarrelling  who  was  master.  For  my  own  part, 
I  am  still  afraid  of  the  same  treatment :  that  I  should  find 
somebody  behind  my  counter  selling  my  broadcloth. 

Mrs.  Bull. — There  is  a  sort  of  fellows  they  call  banterers 
and  bamboozlers  that  play  such  tricks,  but  it  seems  these 
fellows  were  in  earnest 


THE   PIT   OF  LAW  277 

John  Bull. — I  begin  to  think  that  justice  is  a  better  rule 
than  conveniency,  for  all  some  people  make  so  slight  on  it. 


Of  the  hard  shifts  Mrs.  Bull  was  put  to  to  preserve  the 
Manor  of  Bullock's  Hatch,  With  Sir  Roger's  method 
to  keep  off  importunate  duns.1 

As  John  Bull  and  his  wife  were  talking  together  they  were 
surprised  with  a  sudden  knocking  at  the  door.  « Those 
wicked  scriveners  and  lawyers,  no  doubt,»  quoth  John;  and 
so  it  was,  some  asking  for  the  money  he  owed,  and  others 
warning  to  prepare  for  the  approaching  term.  «What  a 
cursed  life  do  I  lead ! »  quoth  John ;  «  debt  is  like  deadly  sin. 
For  God's  sake,  Sir  Roger,  get  me  rid  of  the  fellows.))  «  I'll 
warrant  you,»  quoth  Sir  Roger;  « leave  them  to  me.»  And, 
indeed,  it  was  pleasant  enough  to  observe  Sir  Roger's  method 
with  these  importunate  duns.  His  sincere  friendship  for 
John  Bull  made  him  submit  to  many  things  for  his  service 
which  he  would  have  scorned  to  have  done  for  himself. 
Sometimes  he  would  stand  at  the  door  with  his  long  staff 
to  keep  off  the  duns,  until  John  got  out  at  the  back  door. 
When  the  lawyers  and  tradesmen  brought  extravagant  bills 
Sir  Roger  used  to  bargain  beforehand  for  leave  to  cut  off  a 
quarter  of  a  yard  in  any  part  of  the  bill  he  pleased ;  he  wore 
a  pair  of  scissors  in  his  pocket  for  this  purpose,  and  would 
snip  it  off  so  nicely  as  you  cannot  imagine.  Like  a  true 
goldsmith  he  kept  all  your  holidays;  there  was  not  one 
wanting  in  his  calendar;  when  ready  money  was  scarce,  he 
would  set  them  a-telling  a  thousand  pounds  in  sixpences, 
groats,  and  threepenny-pieces.  It  would  have  done  your 
heart  good  to  have  seen  him  charge  through  an  army  of 
lawyers,  attorneys,  clerks,  and  tradesmen ;  sometimes  with 
sword  in  hand,  at  other  times  nuzzling  like  an  eel  in  the 
mud.  When  a  fellow  stuck  like  a  bur,  that  there  was  no 
shaking  him  off,  he  used  to  be  mighty  inquisitive  about  the 
health  of  his  uncles  and  aunts  in  the  country ;  he  could  call 
them  all  by  their  names,  for  he  knew  everybody,  and  could 

1  Some  attempts  to  destroy  the  public  credit  at  that  time.     Manners  of 
ifle  Earl  of  Oxford. 


278  ARBUTHNOT 

talk  to  them  in  their  own  way.  The  extremely  impertinent 
he  would  send  away  to  see  some  strange  sight,  as  the  Dragon 
of  Hockley  the  Hole,  or  bid  him  call  the  30th  of  next  Feb- 
ruary. Now  and  then  you  would  see  him  in  the  kitchen, 
weighing  the  beef  and  butter,  paying  ready  money,  that  the 
maids  might  not  run  a  tick  at  the  market,  and  the  butchers, 
by  bribing  of  them,  sell  damaged  and  light  meat.  Another 
time  he  would  slip  into  the  cellar  and  gauge  the  casks.  In 
his  leisure  minutes  he  was  posting  his  books  and  gathering 
in  his  debts.  Such  frugal  methods  were  necessary  where 
money  was  so  scarce  and  duns  so  numerous.  All  this  while 
John  kept  his  credit,  could  show  his  head  both  at  'Change 
and  Westminster  Hall;  no  man  protested  his  bill  nor  refused 
his  bond ;  only  the  sharpers  and  the  scriveners,  the  lawyers 
and  other  clerks  pelted  Sir  Roger  as  he  went  along.  The 
squirters  were  at  it  with  their  kennel  water,  for  they  were 
mad  for  the  loss  of  their  bubble,  and  that  they  could  not  get 
him  to  mortgage  the  manor  of  Bullock's  Hatch.  Sir  Roger 
shook  his  ears  and  nuzzled  along,  well  satisfied  within  him- 
self that  he  was  doing  a  charitable  work  in  rescuing  an  hon- 
est man  from  the  claws  of  harpies  and  bloodsuckers.  Mrs. 
Bull  did  all  that  an  affectionate  wife,  and  a  good  housewife, 
could  do ;  yet  the  boundaries  of  virtues  are  indivisible  lines. 
It  is  impossible  to  march  up  close  to  the  frontiers  of  frugal- 
ity without  entering  the  territories  of  parsimony.  Your 
good  housewives  are  apt  to  look  into  the  minutest  things; 
therefore  some  blamed  Mrs.  Bull  for  new  heel-piecing  of  her 
shoes,  grudging  a  quarter  of  a  pound  of  soap  and  sand  to 
scour  the  rooms;  but,  especially,  that  she  would  not  allow 
her  maids  and  apprentices  the  benefit  of  « John  Bunyan,» 
the  «  London  Apprentices,))  or  the  «  Seven  Champions,))  in 
the  black  letter. 


A     CONTINUATION    OF     THE     CONVERSATION     BETWIXT    JOHN    BULL 
AND    HIS    WIFE. 

Mrs.  Bull. — It  is  a  most  sad  life  we  lead,  my  dear,  to  be 
so  teased,  paying  interest  for  old  debts,  and  still  contracting 
new  ones.     However,   I  don't  blame  you  for  vindicating 


THE   PIT   OF   LAW  279 

your  honor  and  chastising  old  Lewis.  To  curb  the  insolent, 
protect  the  oppressed,  recover  one's  own,  and  defend  what 
one  has,  are  good  effects  of  the  law.  The  only  thing  I  want 
to  know  is  how  you  came  to  make  an  end  of  your  money 
before  you  finished  your  suit. 

John  Bull. — I  was  told  by  the  learned  in  the  law  that  my 
suit  stood  upon  three  firm  pillars :  more  money  for  more 
law,  more  law  for  more  mone}'',  and  no  composition.  More 
money  for  more  law  was  plain  to  a  demonstration,  tor  who 
can  go  to  law  without  money?  and  it  was  plain  that  any  man 
that  has  money  may  have  law  for  it.  The  third  was  as  evi- 
dent as  the  other  two ;  for  what  composition  could  be  made 
with  a  rogue  that  never  kept  a  word  he  said? 

Mrs.  Bull. — I  think  you  are  most  likely  to  get  out  of  this 
labyrinth  by  the  second  door,  by  want  of  ready  money  to 
purchase  this  precious  commodity.  But  you  seem  not  only 
to  have  bought  too  much  of  it,  but  have  paid  too  dear  for 
what  you  bought,  else  how  was  it  possible  to  run  so  much 
in  debt  when  at  this  very  time  the  yearly  income  of  what  is 
mortgaged  to  those  usurers  would  discharge  Hocus's  bills, 
and  give  you  your  bellyful  of  law  for  all  your  life,  without 
running  one  sixpence  in  debt?  You  have  been  bred  up  to 
business ;  I  suppose  you  can  cipher ;  I  wonder  you  never 
used  your  pen  and  ink. 

John  Bull. — Now  you  urge  me  too  far;  prithee,  dear 
wife,  hold  thy  tongue.  Suppose  a  young  heir,  heedless, 
raw,  and  inexperienced,  full  of  spirit  and  vigor,  with  a 
favorite  passion,  in  the  hands  of  money  scriveners,  Such 
fellows  are  like  your  wire-drawing  mills :  if  they  get  hold 
of  a  man's  finger  they  will  pull  in  his  whole  body  at  last, 
till  they  squeeze  the  heart,  blood,  and  guts  out  of  him. 
When  I  wanted  money,  half  a  dozen  of  these  fellows  were 
always  waiting  in  my  ante-chamber  with  their  securities 
ready  drawn.  I  was  tempted  with  the  ready,  some  farm  or 
other  went  to  pot.  I  received  with  one  hand,  and  paid  it 
away  with  the  other  to  lawyers  that,  like  so  many  hell 
hounds,  were  ready  to  devour  me.  Then  the  rogues  would 
plead  poverty  and  scarcity  of  money,  which  always  ended 
in  receiving  ninety  for  the  hundred.  After  they  had  got 
possession  of  my  best  rents  they  were  able  to  supply  me 


280  ARBUTHNOT 

with  my  own  money.  But,  what  was  worse,  when  I  looked 
into  the  securities  there  was  no  clause  of  redemption. 

Mrs.  Bull. — No  clause  of  redemption,  say  you?  That's 
hard. 

John  Bull. — No  great  matter.  For  I  cannot  pay  them. 
They  had  got  a  worse  trick  than  that.  The  same  man 
bought  and  sold  to  himself,  paid  the  money,  and  gave  the 
acquittance ;  the  same  man  was  butcher  and  grazier,  brewer 
and  butler,  cook  and  poulterer.  There  is  something  still 
worse  than  all  this.  There  came  twenty  bills  upon  me  at 
once,  which  I  had  given  money  to  discharge.  I  was  like  to 
be  pulled  to  pieces  by  brewer,  butcher,  and  baker ;  even  my 
herb- woman  dunned  me  as  I  went  along  the  streets.  Thanks 
to  my  friend  Sir  Roger,  else  I  must  have  gone  to  jail.  When 
I  asked  the  meaning  of  this,  I  was  told  the  money  went  to 
the  lawyers.  ((Counsel  won't  tick,  sir.»  Hocus  was  urg- 
ing ;  my  book-keeper  sat  sotting  all  day,  playing  at  Put  and 
All-fours.  In  short,  by  griping  usurers,  devouring  lawyers, 
and  negligent  servants  I  am  brought  to  this  pass. 

Mrs.  Bull. — This  was  hard  usage.  But  methinks  the 
least  reflection  might  have  retrieved  you. 

John  Bull. — 'Tis  true;  yet  consider  my  circumstances — 
my  honor  was  engaged,  and  I  did  not  know  how  to  get  out. 
Besides,  I  was  for  five  years  often  drunk,  always  muddled ; 
they  carried  me  from  tavern  to  tavern,  to  ale-houses  and 
brandy-shops,  and  brought  me  acquainted  with  such  strange 
dogs.  «There  goes  the  prettiest  fellow  in  the  world,»  says 
one,  «for  managing  a  jury:  make  him  yours.  There's  an- 
other can  pick  you  up  witnesses.  Serjeant  such-a-one  has 
a  silver  tongue  at  the  bar.»  I  believe,  in  time  I  should  have 
retained  every  single  person  within  the  Inns  of  Court.  The 
night  after  a  trial  I  treated  the  lawyers,  their  wives,  and 
daughters,  with  fiddles,  hautboys,  drums,  and  trumpets.  I 
was  always  hot-headed.  Then  they  placed  me  in  the  mid- 
dle, the  attorneys  and  their  clerks  dancing  about  me,  whoop- 
ing and  holloing,  «  Long  live  John  Bull,  the  glory  and  sup- 
port of  the  law.» 

Mrs.  Bull. — Really,  husband,  you  went  through  a  very 
notable  course. 

John  Bull.  — One  of  the  things  that  first  alarmed  me  was 


THE   PIT   OF   LAW  281 

that  they  showed  a  spite  against  my  poor  old  mother. 
«  Lord,»  quoth  I,  «what  makes  you  so  jealous  of  a  poor,  old, 
innocent  gentlewoman,  that  minds  only  her  prayers  and  her 
Practice  of  Piety?  She  never  meddles  in  any  of  your  con- 
cerns.)) «Fob,»  say  they,  «to  see  a  handsome,  brisk*  genteel 
young  fellow  so  much  governed  by  a  doting  old  woman! 
Do  you  consider  she  keeps  you  out  of  a  good  jointure?  She 
has  the  best  of  your  estate  settled  upon  her  for  a  rent- 
charge.  Hang  her,  old  thief!  turn  her  out  of  doors,  seize 
her  lands,  and  let  her  go  to  law  if  she  dares. »  «  Soft  and 
fair,  gentlemen,))  quoth  I;  «my  mother's  my  mother,  our 
family  are  not  of  an  unnatural  temper.  Though  I  don't 
take  all  her  advice,  I  won't  seize  her  jointure;  long  may 
she  enjoy  it,  good  woman;  I  don't  grudge  it  her.  She  al- 
lows me  now  and  then  a  brace  of  hundreds  for  my  lawsuit ; 
that's  pretty  fair.»  About  this  time  the  old  gentlewoman 
fell  ill  of  an  odd  sort  of  a  distemper.  It  began  with  a  cold- 
ness and  numbness  in  her  limbs,  which  by  degrees  affected 
the  nerves  (I  think  the  physicians  call  them),  seized  the 
brain,  and  at  last  ended  in  a  lethargy.  It  betrayed  itself 
at  first  in  a  sort  of  indifference  and  carelessness  in  all  her 
actions,  coldness  to  her  best  friends,  and  an  aversion  to  stir 
or  go  about  the  common  offices  of  life.  She,  that  was  the 
cleanliest  creature  in  the  world,  never  shrank  now  if  you  set 
a  close-stool  under  her  nose.  She  that  would  sometimes 
rattle  off  her  servants  pretty  sharply,  now  if  she  saw  them 
drink,  or  heard  them  talk  profanely,  never  took  any  notice 
of  it.  Instead  of  her  usual  charities  to  deserving  persons, 
she  threw  away  her  money  upon  roaring,  swearing  bullies 
and  beggars,  that  went  about  the  streets.  «What  is  the 
matter  with  the  old  gentlewoman? »  said  everybody;  «she 
never  used  to  do  in  this  manner.))  At  last  the  distemper 
grew  more  violent,  and  threw  her  downright  into  raving 
fits,  in  which  she  shrieked  out  so  loud  that  she  disturbed  the 
whole  neighborhood.  In  her  fits  she  called  upon  one  Sir 
William.  «  Oh !  Sir  William,  thou  hast  betrayed  me,  killed 
me,  stabbed  me!  See,  see!  Clum  with  his  bloody  knife! 
Seize  him !  seize  him !  stop  him !  Behold  the  fury  with  her 
hissing  snakes!  Where's  my  son  John?  Is  he  well,  is  he 
well?     Poor  man!   I  pity  him!»     And  abundance  more  of 


282  ARBUTHNOT 

such  strange  stuff,  that  nobody  could  make  anything  of.  I 
knew  little  of  the  matter ;  for  when  I  inquired  about  her 
health,  the  answer  was  that  she  was  in  a  good  moderate 
way.  Physicians  were  sent  for  in  haste.  Sir  Roger,  with 
great  difficulty,  brought  Ratcliff ;  Garth  came  upon  the  first 
message.  There  were  several  others  called  in,  but,  as  usual 
upon  such  occasions,  they  differed  strangely  at  the  consulta- 
tion. At  last  they  divided  into  two  parties ;  one  sided  with 
Garth,  the  other  with  Ratcliff.  Dr.  Garth  said,  «  This  case 
seems  to  me  to  be  plainly  hysterical;  the  old  woman  is 
whimsical ;  it  is  a  common  thing  for  your  old  women  to  be 
so;  I'll  pawn  my  life,  blisters,  with  the  steel  diet,  will  re- 
cover her.»  Others  suggested  strong  purging  and  letting 
of  blood,  because  she  was  plethoric.  Some  went  so  far  as 
to  say  the  old  woman  was  mad,  and  nothing  would  be  better 
than  a  little  corporal  correction.  Ratcliff  said,  «  Gentlemen, 
you  are  mistaken  in  this  case ;  it  is  plainly  an  acute  dis- 
temper, and  she  cannot  hold  out  three  days  unless  she  is 
supported  with  strong  cordials.))  I  came  into  the  room  with 
a  good  deal  of  concern,  and  asked  them  what  they  thought 
of  my  mother?  «In  no  manner  of  danger,  I  vow  to  God,» 
quoth  Garth;  «the  old  woman  is  hysterical,  fanciful,  sir, 
I  vow  to  God.»  «I  tell  you,  sir,»  says  Ratcliff,  «she  cannot 
live  three  days  to  an  end,  unless  there  is  some  very  effect- 
ual course  taken  with  her;  she  has  a  malignant  fever. » 
Then  «fool,»  «puppy,»  and  « blockhead,))  were  the  best 
words  they  gave.  I  could  hardly  restrain  them  from  throw- 
ing the  ink-bottles  at  one  another's  heads.  I  forgot  to  tell 
you  that  one  party  of  the  physicians  desired  I  would  take 
my  sister  Peg  into  the  house  to  nurse  her,  but  the  old  gen- 
tlewoman  would  not  hear  of  that.  At  last  one  physician 
asked  if  the  lady  had  ever  been  used  to  take  laudanum? 
Her  maid  answered,  not  that  she  knew ;  but,  indeed,  there 
was  a  High  German  liveryman  of  hers,  one  Van  Ptschirn- 
sooker,  that  gave  her  a  sort  of  a  quack  powder.  The  phy- 
sician desired  to  see  it.  «Nay,»  says  he,  « there  is  opium  in 
this,  I  am  sure.» 

Mrs.  Bull. — I  hope  you  examined  a  little  into  this  mat- 
ter? 

John  Bull. — I  did,  indeed,  and  discovered  a  great  mys- 


THE   PIT   OF   LAW  283 

tery  of  iniquity.  The  witnesses  made  oath  that  they  had 
heard  some  of  the  liverymen  frequently  railing  at  their  mis- 
tress. They  said  she  was  a  troublesome  fiddle-faddle  old 
woman,  and  so  ceremonious  that  there  was  no  bearing  of 
her.  They  were  so  plagued  with  bowing  and  cringing  as 
they  went  in  and  out  of  the  room  that  their  backs  ached. 
She  used  to  scold  at  one  for  his  dirty  shoes,  at  another  for 
his  greasy  hair  and  not  combing  his  head.  Then  she  was 
so  passionate  and  fiery  in  her  temper  that  there  was  no  liv- 
ing with  her.  She  wanted  something  to  sweeten  her  blood. 
That  they  never  had  a  quiet  night's  rest  for  getting  up  in 
the  morning  to  early  Sacraments.  They  wished  they  could 
find  some  way  or  another  to  keep  the  old  woman  quiet  in 
her  bed.  Such  discourses  were  often  overheard  among  the 
liverymen,  while  the  said  Van  Ptschirnsooker  had  undertook 
this  matter.  A  maid  made  affidavit  «  That  she  had  seen  the 
said  Van  Ptschirnsooker,  one  of  the  liverymen,  frequently 
making  up  of  medicines  and  administering  them  to  all  the 
neighbors;  that  she  saw  him  one  morning  make  up  the 
powder  which  her  mistress  took ;  that  she  had  the  curiosity 
to  ask  him  whence  he  had  the  ingredients.  'They  come,' 
says  he,  '  from  several  parts  of  de  world.  Dis  I  have  from 
Geneva,  dat  from  Rome,  this  white  powder  from  Amster- 
dam, and  the  red  from  Edinburgh,  but  the  chief  ingredient 
of  all  comes  from  Turkey.'))  It  was  likewise  proved  that 
the  said  Van  Ptschirnsooker  had  been  frequently  seen  at 
the  «  Rose  »  with  Jack,  who  was  known  to  bear  an  inveter- 
ate spite  to  his  mistress.  That  he  brought  a  certain  powder 
to  his  mistress  which  the  examinant  believes  to  be  the  same, 
and  spoke  the  following  words: — «  Madam,  here  is  grand 
secret  van  de  world,  my  sweetening  powder ;  it  does  tem- 
perate de  humor,  dispel  the  windt,  and  cure  de  vapor;  it 
lulleth  and  quieteth  the  animal  spirits,  procuring  rest  and 
pleasant  dreams.  It  is  de  infallible  receipt  for  de  scurvy, 
all  heats  in  de  bloodt,  and  breaking  out  upon  de  skin.  It  is 
de  true  blood-stancher,  stopping  all  fluxes  of  de  blood.  If 
you  do  take  dis,  you  will  never  ail  anyding;  it  will  cure  you 
of  all  diseases.))  And  abundance  more  to  this  purpose, 
which  the  examinant  does  not  remember. 


ON    RETICENCE    IN    CRITICISM 

BY 

HENRY  ST.  JOHN,   LORD   BOLINGBROKE 


LORD   BOLINGBROKE 


A  brilliant  figure  among  the  foremost  public  men  was  Henry  St. 
John,  afterward  Viscount  Bolingbroke,  born  in  1678.  He  entered  Par- 
liament in  his  twenty-third  year  and  was  hailed  as  an  ideal  leader, 
dashing  and  sound  in  strategy.  About  that  time  James  II.  died  in 
exile;  his  son  and  grandson  occupied  the  stage  during  the  following 
forty  3'ears  or  more  as  the  Old  and  the  Young  Pretenders.  The  death 
of  William  III.  in  1702  brought  Anne  to  the  throne.  Bolingbroke  be- 
came Secretary  for  War,  and  afterward  Secretary  of  State.  When  the 
Whigs  came  into  power,  Bolingbroke  retired  from  public  life  for  the 
two  years  1708-10.  As  Tory  leader  he  did  his  utmost  to  end  the  war 
with  France,  which  the  Whigs  favored,  dreading  a  return  of  the  Pre- 
tender and  a  reaction  against  Protestantism. 

There  were  stormy  times  in  Parliament.  The  Treaty  of  Utrecht 
closed  the  war  of  the  Spanish  succession  in  1713.  On  Queen  Anne's 
death  in  1714  Bolingbroke  was  impeached  for  treason  after  having  been 
dismissed  from  office.  He  escaped  to  France  and  became  Secretary  of 
State  to  the  Pretender,  from  which  he  was  also  dismissed.  He  re- 
ceived a  pardon  from  England  in  1723,  but  he  was  deprived  of  his 
peerage. 

From  this  time  until  his  death  in  1751  most  of  his  time  was  given  to 
literary  work.  He  enjoyed  the  closest  intimacy  with  Pope,  to  whom 
the  accompanying  selection  from  his  letters  was  addressed.  Among 
his  published  writings  were  " Reflections  on  Exile,"  "Letters  on  the 
Study  of  History,"  "On  the  True  Use  of  Retirement,"  "On  the  Spirit 
of  Patriotism,"  and  "The  Idea  of  a  Patriot  King."  After  bis  death  a 
number  of  essays  on  religious  and  philosophical  subjects  were  collected, 
the  drift  of  them  being  an  anticipation  of  the  modern  agnostic  position. 

Bolingbroke  has  a  style  distinguished  for  lucidity  and  graphic 
force.  He  reasons  well  and  boldly.  Not  a  few  writers  of  our  day  are 
indebted  to  his  unfamiliar  writings  for  qualities  they  have  not  cared  to 
acknowledge. 


«86 


ON   RETICENCE  IN  CRITICISM 

A   LETTER   TO   ALEXANDER    POPE 


Dear  Sir, — Since  you  have  begun,  at  my  request,  the  work 
which  I  have  wished  long  that  you  would  undertake,  it  is 
but  reasonable  that  I  submit  to  the  task  you  impose  upon 
me.  The  mere  compliance  with  anything  you  desire,  is  a 
pleasure  to  me.  On  the  present  occasion,  however,  this 
compliance  is  a  little  interested ;  and  that  I  may  not  assume 
more  merit  with  you  than  I  really  have,  I  will  own  that  in 
performing  this  act  of  friendship — for  such  you  are  willing 
to  esteem  it — the  purity  of  my  motive  is  corrupted  by  some 
regard  to  my  private  utilit3r.  In  short,  I  suspect  you  to  be 
guilty  of  a  very  friendly  fraud,  and  to  mean  my  service 
whilst  you  seem  to  mean  your  own. 

In  leading  me  to  discourse,  as  you  have  done  often,  and 
in  pressing  me  to  write,  as  you  do  now,  on  certain  subjects, 
you  may  propose  to  draw  me  back  to  those  trains  of  thought 
which  are,  above  all  others,  worthy  to  employ  the  human 
mind :  and  I  thank  you  for  it.  They  have  been  often  inter- 
rupted by  the  business  and  dissipations  of  the  world,  but 
they  were  never  so  more  grievously  to  me,  nor  less  usefully 
to  the  public,  than  since  royal  seduction  prevailed  on  me  to 
abandon  the  quiet  and  leisure  of  the  retreat  I  had  chosen 
abroad,  and  to  neglect  the  example  of  Rutilius,  for  I  might 
have  imitated  him  in  this  at  least,  who  fled  further  from  his 
country  when  he  was  invited  home. 

You  have  begun  your  ethic  epistles  in  a  masterly  manner. 
You  have  copied  no  other  writer,  nor  will  you,  I  think,  be 
copied  by  any  one.  It  is  with  genius  as  it  is  with  beauty, 
there  are  a  thousand  pretty  things  that  charm  alike ;  but 
superior  genius,  like  superior  beauty,  has  always  something 

287 


288  BOLINGBROKE 

particular,  something  that  belongs  to  itself  alone.  It  is  al- 
ways distinguishable,  not  only  from  those  who  have  no  claim 
to  excellence,  but  even  from  those  who  excel,  when  any 
such  there  are. 

I  am  pleased,  you  may  be  sure,  to  find  your  satire  turn, 
in  the  very  beginning  of  these  epistles,  against  the  principal 
cause — for  such  you  know  that  I  think  it — of  all  the  errors, 
all  the  contradictions,  and  all  the  disputes  which  have  arisen 
among  those  who  impose  themselves  on  their  fellow-crea- 
tures for  great  masters,  and  almost  sole  proprietors  of  a 
gift  of  God  which  is  common  to  the  whole  species.  This 
gift  is  reason ;  a  faculty,  or  rather  an  aggregate  of  faculties, 
that  is  bestowed  in  different  degrees ;  and  not  in  the  highest, 
certainly,  on  those  who  make  the  highest  pretensions  to  it. 
Let  your  satire  chastise,  and,  if  it  be  possible,  humble  that 
pride,  which  is  the  fruitful  parent  of  their  vain  curiosity 
and  bold  presumption ;  which  renders  them  dogmatical  in 
the  midst  of  ignorance,  and  often  sceptical  in  the  midst  of 
knowledge.  The  man  who  is  puffed  up  with  this  philosoph- 
ical pride,  whether  divine  or  theist,  or  atheist,  deserves  no 
more  to  be  respected  than  one  of  those  trifling  creatures 
who  are  conscious  of  little  else  than  their  animality,  and 
who  stop  as  far  short  of  the  attainable  perfections  of  their 
nature  as  the  other  attempts  to  go  beyond  them.  You  will 
discover  as  many  silly  affections,  as  much  foppery  and  futil- 
ity, as  much  inconsistency  and  low  artifice  in  one  as  in  the 
other.  I  never  met  the  mad  woman  at  Brentford  decked  out 
in  old  and  new  rags,  and  nice  and  fantastical  in  the  manner 
of  wearing  them,  without  reflecting  on  many  of  the  pro- 
found scholars  and  sublime  philosophers  of  our  own  and  of 
former  ages. 

You  may  expect  some  contradiction  and  some  obloquy  on 
the  part  of  these  men,  though  you  will  have  less  to  appre- 
hend from  their  malice  and  resentment  than  a  writer  in 
prose  on  the  same  subjects  would  have.  You  will  be  safer 
in  the  generalities  of  poetry ;  and  I  know  your  precaution 
enough  to  know  that  you  will  screen  yourself  in  them  against 
any  direct  charge  of  heterodoxy.  But  the  great  clamor  of 
all  will  be  raised  when  you  descend  lower,  and  let  your  Muse 
loose  among  the  herd  of  mankind.     Then  will  those  powers 


RETICENCE   IN   CRITICISM  289 

of  dulness  whom  you  have  ridiculed  into  immortality  be 
called  forth  in  one  united  phalanx  against  you.  But  why 
do  I  talk  of  what  may  happen?  You  have  experienced  lately 
something  more  than  I  prognosticate.  Fools  and  knaves 
should  be  modest  at  least ;  they  should  ask  quarter  of  men 
of  sense  and  virtue :  and  so  they  do  till  they  grow  up  to  a 
majority,  till  a  similitude  of  character  assures  them  of  the 
protection  of  the  great.  But  then  vice  and  folly  such  as 
prevail  in  our  country,  corrupt  our  manners,  deform  even 
social  life,  and  contribute  to  make  us  ridiculous  as  well  as 
miserable,  will  claim  respect  for  the  sake  of  the  vicious  and 
the  foolish.  It  will  be  then  no  longer  sufficient  to  spare 
persons ;  for  to  draw  even  characters  of  imagination  must 
become  criminal  when  the  application  of  them  to  those  of 
highest  rank  and  greatest  power  cannot  fail  to  be  made. 
You  began  to  laugh  at  the  ridiculous  taste  or  the  no  taste  in 
gardening  and  building  of  some  men  who  are  at  great  ex- 
pense in  both.  What  a  clamor  was  raised  instantly !  The 
name  of  Timon  was  applied  to  a  noble  person  with  double 
malice,  to  make  him  ridiculous,  and  you,  who  lived  in 
friendship  with  him,  odious.  By  the  authority  that  em- 
ployed itself  to  encourage  this  clamor,  and  by  the  industry 
used  to  spread  and  support  it,  one  would  have  thought  that 
you  had  directed  your  satire  in  that  epistle  to  political  sub- 
jects, and  had  inveighed  against  those  who  impoverish, 
dishonor,  and  sell  their  country,  instead  of  making  yourself 
inoffensively  merry  at  the  expense  of  men  who  ruin  none 
but  themselves,  and  render  none  but  themselves  ridiculous. 
What  will  the  clamor  be,  and  how  will  the  same  authority 
foment  it,  when  you  proceed  to  lash,  in  other  instances,  our 
want  of  elegance  even  in  luxury,  and  our  wild  profusion, 
the  source  of  insatiable  rapacity,  and  almost  universal  venal- 
ity? My  mind  forebodes  that  the  time  will  come — and  who 
knows  how  near  it  may  be? — when  other  powers  than  those 
of  Grub  Street  may  be  drawn  forth  against  you,  and  when 
vice  and  folly  may  be  avowedly  sheltered  behind  a  power 
instituted  for  better  and  contrary  purposes — for  the  punish- 
ment of  one,  and  for  the  reformation  of  both. 

But,  however  this  may  be,  pursue  your  task  undauntedly, 
and  whilst  so  many  others  convert  the  noblest  employments 
19 


290  BOLINGBROKE 

of  human  society  into  sordid  trades,  let  the  generous  Muse 
resume  her  ancient  dignity,  re-assert  her  ancient  preroga- 
tive, and  instruct  and  reform,  as  well  as  amuse  the  world. 
Let  her  give  a  new  turn  to  the  thoughts  of  men,  raise  new 
affections  in  their  minds,  and  determine  in  another  and  bet- 
ter manner  the  passions  of  their  hearts.  Poets,  they  say, 
were  the  first  philosophers  and  divines  in  every  country, 
and  in  ours,  perhaps,  the  first  institutions  of  religion  and 
civil  policy  were  owing  to  our  bards.  Their  task  might  be 
hard,  their  merit  was  certainly  great.  But  if  they  were  to 
rise  now  from  the  dead  they  would  find  the  second  task,  if  I 
mistake  not,  much  harder  than  the  first,  and  confess  it  more 
easy  to  deal  with  ignorance  than  with  error.  When  societies 
are  once  established  and  Governments  formed,  men  flatter 
themselves  that  they  proceed  in  cultivating  the  first  rudi- 
ments of  civility,  policy,  religion,  and  learning.  But  they 
do  not  observe  that  the  private  interests  of  many,  the  preju- 
dices, affections,  and  passions  of  all,  have  a  large  share  in 
the  work,  and  often  the  largest.  These  put  a  sort  of  bias 
on  the  mind,  which  makes  it  decline  from  the  straight 
course ;  and  the  further  these  supposed  improvements  are 
carried,  the  greater  this  declination  grows,  till  men  lose 
sight  of  primitive  and  real  nature,  and  have  no  other  guide 
but  custom,  a  second  and  a  false  nature.  The  author  of 
one  is  divine  wisdom;  of  the  other,  human  imagination; 
and  yet  whenever  the  second  stands  in  opposition  to  the 
first,  as  it  does  most  frequently,  the  second  prevails.  From 
hence  it  happens  that  the  most  civilized  nations  are  often 
guilty  of  injustice  and  cruelty  which  the  least  civilized  would 
abhor,  and  that  many  of  the  most  absurd  opinions  and  doc- 
trines which  have  been  imposed  in  the  Dark  Ages  of  igno- 
rance continue  to  be  the  opinions  and  doctrines  of  ages 
enlightened  by  philosophy  and  learning.  « If  I  was  a  phi- 
losopher,)) says  Montaigne,  « I  would  naturalize  art  instead 
of  artilizing  Nature.))  The  expression  is  odd,  but  the  sense 
is  good,  and  what  he  recommends  would  be  done  if  the  rea- 
sons that  have  been  given  did  not  stand  in  the  way ;  if  the 
self-interest  of  some  men,  the  madness  of  others,  and  the 
universal  pride  of  the  human  heart  did  not  determine  them 
to  prefer  error  to  truth  and  authority  to  reason. 


RETICENCE   IN   CRITICISM  291 

Whilst  your  Muse  is  employed  to  lash  the  vicious  into  re- 
pentance, or  to  laugh  the  fools  of  the  age  into  shame,  and 
whilst  she  rises  sometimes  to  the  noblest  subjects  of  philo- 
sophical meditation,  I  shall  throw  upon  paper,  for  your  sat- 
isfaction and  for  my  own,  some  part  at  least  of  what  I  have 
thought  and  said  formerly  on  the  last  of  these  subjects,  as 
well  as  the  reflections  that  they  may  suggest  to  me  further 
in  writing  on  them.  The  strange  situation  I  am  in,  and  the 
melancholy  state  of  public  affairs,  take  up  much  of  my  time ; 
divide,  or  even  dissipate,  my  thoughts ;  and,  which  is  worse, 
drag  the  mind  down  by  perpetual  interruptions  from  a  phil- 
osophical tone  or  temper  to  the  drudgery  of  private  and 
public  business.  The  last  lies  nearest  my  heart ;  and  since 
I  am  once  more  engaged  in  the  service  of  my  country,  dis- 
armed, gagged,  and  almost  bound  as  I  am,  I  will  not  aban- 
don it  as  long  as  the  integrity  and  perseverance  of  those 
who  are  under  none  of  these  disadvantages,  and  with  whom 
I  now  co-operate,  make  it  reasonable  for  me  to  act  the  same 
part.  Further  than  this  no  shadow  of  duty  obliges  me  to 
go.  Plato  ceased  to  act  for  the  Commonwealth  when  he 
ceased  to  persuade,  and  Solon  laid  down  his  arms  before  the 
public  magazine  when  Pisistratus  grew  too  strong  to  be  op- 
posed any  longer  with  hopes  of  success. 

Though  my  situation  and  my  engagements  are  sufficiently 
known  to  you,  I  choose  to  mention  them  on  this  occasion 
lest  you  should  expect  from  me  anything  more  than  I  find 
myself  able  to  perform  whilst  I  am  in  them.  It  has  been 
said  by  many  that  they  wanted  time  to  make  their  dis- 
courses shorter ;  and  if  this  be  a  good  excuse,  as  I  think  it 
may  be  often,  I  lay  in  my  claim  to  it.  You  must  neither 
expect  in  what  I  am  about  to  write  to  you  that  brevity 
which  might  be  expected  in  letters  or  essays,  nor  that  ex- 
actness of  method,  nor  that  fulness  of  the  several  parts  which 
they  affect  to  observe  who  presume  to  write  philosophical 
treatises.  The  merit  of  brevity  is  relative  to  the  manner 
and  style  in  which  any  subject  is  treated,  as  well  as  to  the 
nature  of  it;  for  the  same  subject  maybe  sometimes  treated 
very  differently,  and  yet  very  properly,  in  both  these  re- 
spects. Should  the  poet  make  syllogisms  in  verse,  or  pur- 
sue a  long  process  of  reasoning  in  the  didactic  style,  he 


292  BOLINGBROKE 

would  be  sure  to  tire  his  reader  on  the  whole,  like  Lucretius, 
though  he  reasoned  better  than  the  Roman,  and  put  into 
some  parts  of  his  work  the  same  poetical  fire.  He  may 
write,  as  you  have  begun  to  do,  on  philosophical  subjects, 
but  he  must  write  in  his  own  character.  He  must  contract, 
he  may  shadow,  he  has  a  right  to  omit  whatever  will  not  be 
cast  in  the  poetic  mould ;  and  when  he  cannot  instruct,  he 
may  hope  to  please.  But  the  philosopher  has  no  such  privi- 
leges. He  may  contract  sometimes,  he  must  never  shadow. 
He  must  be  limited  by  his  matter,  lest  he  should  grow  whim- 
sical, and  by  the  parts  of  it  which  he  understands  best,  lest 
he  should  grow  obscure.  But  these  parts  he  must  develop 
fully,  and  he  has  no  right  to  omit  anything  that  may  serve 
the  purpose  of  truth,  whether  it  please  or  not.  As  it  would 
be  disingenuous  to  sacrifice  truth  to  popularity,  so  it  is  tri- 
fling to  appeal  to  the  reason  and  experience  of  mankind,  as 
every  philosophical  writer  does,  or  must  be  understood  to 
do,  and  then  to  talk,  like  Plato  and  his  ancient  and  modern 
disciples,  to  the  imagination  only.  There  is  no  need,  how- 
ever, to  banish  eloquence  out  of  philosophy,  and  truth  and 
reason  are  no  enemies  to  the  purity  nor  to  the  ornaments  of 
language.  But  as  the  want  of  an  exact  determination  of 
ideas  and  of  an  exact  precision  in  the  use  of  words  is  inex- 
cusable in  a  philosopher,  he  must  preserve  them,  even  at 
the  expense  of  style.  In  short,  it  seems  to  me  that  the  busi- 
ness of  the  philosopher  is  to  dilate,  if  I  may  borrow  this 
word  from  Tully,  to  press,  to  prove,  to  convince ;  and  that 
of  the  poet  to  hint,  to  touch  his  subject  with  short  and  spir- 
ited strokes,  to  warm  the  affections,  and  to  speak  to  the 
heart. 

Though  I  seem  to  prepare  an  apology  for  prolixity  even 
in  writing  essays,  I  will  endeavor  not  to  be  tedious,  and  this 
endeavor  may  succeed  the  better  perhaps  by  declining  any 
over-strict  observation  of  method.  There  are  certain  points 
of  that  which  I  esteem  the  first  philosophy  whereof  I  shall 
never  lose  sight,  but  this  will  be  very  consistent  with  a  sort 
of  epistolary  license.  To  digress  and  to  ramble  are  different 
things,  and  he  who  knows  the  country  through  which  he 
travels  may  venture  out  of  the  highroad,  because  he  is  sure 
of  finding  his  way  back  to  it  again.     Thus  the  several  mat- 


RETICENCE   IN   CRITICISM  293 

ters  that  may  arise  even  accidentally  before  me  will  have 
some  share  in  guiding  my  pen. 

I  dare  not  promise  that  the  sections  or  members  of  these 
essays  will  bear  that  nice  proportion  to  one  another  and  to 
the  whole  which  a  severe  critic  would  require.  All  I  dare 
promise  you  is  that  my  thoughts,  in  what  order  soever  they 
flow,  shall  be  communicated  to  you  just  as  they  pass  through 
my  mind,  just  as  they  use  to  be  when  we  converse  together 
on  these  or  any  other  subjects  when  we  saunter  alone,  or,  as 
we  have  often  done  with  good  Arbuthnot  and  the  jocose 
Dean  of  St.  Patrick's,  among  the  multiplied  scenes  of  your 
little  garden.  That  theatre  is  large  enough  for  my  ambi- 
tion. I  dare  not  pretend  to  instruct  mankind,  and  I  am  not 
humble  enough  to  write  to  the  public  for  any  other  purpose. 
I  mean  by  writing  on  such  subjects  as  I  intend  here,  to  make 
some  trial  of  my  progress  in  search  of  the  most  important 
truths,  and  to  make  this  trial  before  a  friend  in  whom  I 
think  I  may  confide.  These  epistolary  essays,  therefore, 
will  be  written  with  as  little  regard  to  form  and  with  as 
little  reserve  as  I  used  to  show  in  the  conversations  which 
have  given  occasion  to  them,  when  I  maintained  the  same 
opinions  and  insisted  on  the  same  reasons  in  defence  of 
them. 

It  might  seem  strange  to  a  man  not  well  acquainted  with 
the  world,  and  in  particular  with  the  philosophical  and  theo- 
logical tribe,  that  so  much  precaution  should  be  necessary 
in  the  communication  of  our  thoughts  on  any  subject  of  the 
first  philosophy,  which  is  of  common  concern  to  the  whole 
race  of  mankind,  and  wherein  no  one  can  have,  according 
to  nature  and  truth,  any  separate  interest.  Yet  so  it  is. 
The  separate  interests  we  cannot  have  by  God's  institutions, 
are  created  by  those  of  man ;  and  there  is  no  subject  on 
which  men  deal  more  unfairly  with  one  another  than  thrj. 
There  are  separate  interests,  to  mention  them  in  general 
only,  of  prejudice  and  of  profession.  By  the  first,  men  set 
out  in  the  search  of  truth  under  the  conduct  of  error,  and 
work  up  their  heated  imaginations  often  to  such  a  delirium 
that  the  more  genius,  and  the  more  learning  they  have,  the 
madder  they  grow.  By  the  second,  they  are  sworn,  as  it 
were,  to  follow  all  their  lives  the  authority  of  some  particu- 


294  BOLINGBROKE 

lar  school,  to  which  «tanquam  scopulo,  adhaerescunt ; »  for 
the  condition  of  their  engagement  is  to  defend  certain  doc- 
trines, and  even  mere  forms  of  speech,  without  examination, 
or  to  examine  only  in  order  to  defend  them.  By  both,  they 
become  philosophers  as  men  became  Christians  in  the  primi- 
tive Church,  or  as  they  determined  themselves  about  dis- 
puted doctrines;  for  says  Hilarius,  writing  to  St.  Austin, 
«  Your  holiness  knows  that  the  greatest  part  of  the  faithful 
embrace,  or  refuse  to  embrace,  a  doctrine  for  no  reason  but 
the  impression  which  the  name  and  authority  of  some  body 
or  other  makes  on  them.w  What  now  can  a  man  who  seeks 
truth  for  the  sake  of  truth,  and  is  indifferent  where  he  finds 
it,  expect  from  any  communication  of  his  thoughts  to  such 
men  as  these?  He  will  be  much  deceived  if  he  expects  any- 
thing better  than  imposition  or  altercation. 

Few  men  have,  I  believe,  consulted  others,  both  the  liv- 
ing and  the  dead,  with  less  presumption,  and  in  a  greater 
spirit  of  docility,  than  I  have  done:  and  the  more  I  have 
consulted,  the  less  have  I  found  of  that  inward  conviction 
on  which  a  mind  that  is  not  absolutely  implicit  can  rest. 
I  thought  for  a  time  that  this  must  be  my  fault.  I  distrusted 
myself,  not  my  teachers — men  of  the  greatest  name,  ancient 
and  modern.  But  I  found  at  last  that  it  was  safer  to  trust 
myself  than  them,  and  to  proceed  by  the  light  of  my  own 
understanding  than  to  wander  after  these  ignes  fatui  of  phi- 
losophy. If  I  am  able  therefore  to  tell  you  easily,  and  at  the 
same  time  so  clearly  and  distinctly  as  to  be  easily  under- 
stood, and  so  strongly  as  not  to  be  easily  refuted,  how  I 
have  thought  for  myself,  I  shall  be  persuaded  that  I  have 
thought  enough  on  these  subjects.  If  I  am  not  able  to  do 
this,  it  will  be  evident  that  I  have  not  thought  on  them 
enough.  I  must  review  my  opinions,  discover  and  correct 
my  errors. 

I  have  said  that  the  subjects  I  mean,  and  which  will  be 
the  principal  objects  of  these  essays,  are  those  of  the  first 
philosophy;  and  it  is  fit,  therefore,  that  I  should  explain 
what  I  understand  by  the  first  philosophy.  Do  not  imagine 
that  I  understand  what  has  passed  commonly  under  that 
name — metaphysical  pneumatics,  for  instance,  or  ontology. 
The  first  are  conversant  about  imaginary  substances,  such 


RETICENCE   IN   CRITICISM  295 

as  may  and  may  not  exist.  That  there  is  a  God  we  can 
demonstrate ;  and  although  we  know  nothing  of  His  manner 
of  being,  yet  we  acknowledge  Him  to  be  immaterial,  because 
a  thousand  absurdities,  and  such  as  imply  the  strongest  con- 
tradiction, result  from  the  supposition  that  the  Supreme 
Being  is  a  system  of  matter.  But  of  any  other  spirits  we 
neither  have  nor  can  have  any  knowledge :  and  no  man  will 
be  inquisitive  about  spiritual  physiognomy,  nor  go  about  to 
inquire,  I  believe,  at  this  time,  as  Evodius  inquired  of  St. 
Austin,  whether  our  immaterial  part,  the  soul,  does  not 
remain  united,  when  it  forsakes  this  gross  terrestrial  body, 
to  some  ethereal  body  more  subtile  and  more  fine ;  which 
was  one  of  the  Pythagorean  and  Platonic  whimsies :  nor  be 
under  any  concern  to  know,  if  this  be  not  the  case  of  the 
dead,  how  souls  can  be  distinguished  after  their  separation 
— that  of  Dives,  for  example,  from  that  of  Lazarus.  The 
second — that  is,  ontology — treats  most  scientifically  of  being 
abstracted  from  all  being  («  de  ente  quatenus  ens  »).  It  came 
in  fashion  whilst  Aristotle  was  in  fashion,  and  has  been 
spun  into  an  immense  web  out  of  scholastic  brains.  But  it 
should  be,  and  I  think  it  is  already,  left  to  the  acute  disci- 
ples of  Leibnitz,  who  dug  for  gold  in  the  ordure  of  the 
schools,  and  to  other  German  wits.  Let  them  darken  by 
tedious  definitions  what  is  too  plain  to  need  any ;  or  let  them 
employ  their  vocabulary  of  barbarous  terms  to  propagate 
an  unintelligible  jargon,  which  is  supposed  to  express  such 
abstractions  as  they  cannot  make,  and  according  to  which, 
however,  they  presume  often  to  control  the  particular  and 
most  evident  truths  of  experimental  knowledge.  Such  re- 
puted science  deserves  no  rank  in  philosophy,  not  the  last, 
and  much  less  the  first. 

I  desire  you  not  to  imagine  neither  that  I  understand  by 
the  first  philosophy  even  such  a  science  as  my  Lord  Bacon 
describes — a  science  of  general  observations  and  axioms, 
such  as  do  not  belong  properly  to  any  particular  part  of 
science,  but  are  common  to  many,  «and  of  an  higher  stage, » 
as  he  expresses  himself.  He  complains  that  philosophers 
have  not  gone  up  to  the  «  spring-head, »  which  would  be  of 
«  general  and  excellent  use  for  the  disclosing  of  Nature  and 
the  abridgment  of  art,»  though  they  «draw  now  and  then  a 


296  BOLINGBROKE 

bucket  of  water  out  of  the  well  for  some  particular  use.»  I 
respect — no  man  more — this  great  authority ;  but  I  respect 
no  authority  enough  to  subscribe  on  the  faith  of  it,  to  that 
which  appears  to  me  fantastical,  as  if  it  were  real.  Now 
this  spring-head  of  science  is  purely  fantastical,  and  the 
figure  conveys  a  false  notion  to  the  mind,  as  figures  em- 
ployed licentiously  are  apt  to  do.  The  great  author  himself 
calls  these  axioms,  which  are  to  constitute  his  first  philos- 
ophy, observations.  Such  they  are  properly ;  for  there  are 
some  uniform  principles,  or  uniform  impressions  of  the 
same  nature,  to  be  observed  in  very  different  subjects,  «  una 
eademque  naturae  vestigia  aut  signacula  diversis  materiis  et 
subjectis  impressa.w  These  observations,  therefore,  when 
they  are  sufficiently  verified  and  well  established,  may  be 
properly  applied  in  discourse,  or  writing,  from  one  subject 
to  another.  But  I  apprehend  that  when  they  are  so  applied, 
they  serve  rather  to  illustrate  a  proposition  than  to  disclose 
Nature,  or  to  abridge  art.  They  may  have  a  better  founda- 
tion than  similitudes  and  comparisons  more  loosely  and  more 
superficially  made.  They  may  compare  realities,  not  ap- 
pearances; things  that  Nature  has  made  alike,  not  things 
that  seem  only  to  have  some  relation  of  this  kind  in  our 
imaginations.  But  still  they  are  comparisons  of  things  dis- 
tinct and  independent.  They  do  not  lead  us  to  things,  but 
things  that  are  lead  us  to  make  them.  He  who  possesses 
two  sciences,  and  the  same  will  be  often  true  of  arts,  may 
find  in  certain  respects  a  similitude  between  them  because 
he  possesses  both.  If  he  did  not  possess  both,  he  would  be 
led  by  neither  to  the  acquisition  of  the  other.  Such  obser- 
vations are  effects,  not  means  of  knowledge ;  and,  therefore, 
to  suppose  that  any  collection  of  them  can  constitute  a 
science  of  an  ((higher  stage, »  from  whence  we  may  reason  a 
priori  down  to  particulars,  is,  I  presume,  to  suppose  some- 
thing very  groundless,  and  very  useless  at  best,  to  the  ad- 
vancement of  knowledge.  A  pretended  science  of  this  kind 
must  be  barren  of  knowledge,  and  may  be  fruitful  of  error, 
as  the  Persian  magic  was,  if  it  proceeded  on  the  faint  anal- 
ogy that  may  be  discovered  between  physics  and  politics, 
and  deduced  the  rules  of  civil  government  from  what  the 
professors  of  it  observed  of  the  operations  and  works  of 


RETICENCE  IN   CRITICISM  297 

Nature  in  the  material  world.  The  very  specimen  of  their 
magic  which  my  Lord  Bacon  has  given  would  be  sufficient 
to  justify  what  is  here  objected  to  his  doctrine. 

Let  lis  conclude  this  head  by  mentioning  two  examples 
among  others  which  he  brings  to  explain  the  better  what 
he  means  by  his  first  philosophy.  The  first  is  this  axiom, 
« If  to  unequals  you  add  equals,  all  will  be  unequal.))  This, 
he  says,  is  an  axiom  of  justice  as  well  as  of  mathematics; 
and  he  asks  whether  there  is  not  a  true  coincidence  between 
commutative  and  distributive  justice,  and  arithmetical  and 
geometrical  proportion.  But  I  would  ask  in  my  turn  whether 
the  certainty  that  any  arithmetician  or  geometrician  has  of 
the  arithmetical  or  geometrical  truth  will  lead  him  to  dis- 
cover this  coincidence.  I  ask  whether  the  most  profound 
lawyer  who  never  heard  perhaps  this  axiom  would  be  led  to 
it  by  his  notions  of  commutative  and  distributive  justice. 
Certainly  not.  He  who  is  well  skilled  in  arithmetic  or 
geometry,  and  in  jurisprudence,  may  observe  perhaps  this 
uniformity  of  natural  principle  or  impression  because  he  is 
so  skilled,  though,  to  say  the  truth,  it  be  not  very  obvious ; 
but  he  will  not  have  derived  his  knowledge  of  it  from  any 
spring-head  of  a  first  philosophy,  from  any  science  of  an 
« higher  stage »  than  arithmetic,  geometry,  and  jurispru- 
dence. 

The  second  example  is  this  axiom,  «  That  the  destruction 
of  things  is  prevented  by  the  reduction  of  them  to  their 
first  principles.))  This  rule  is  said  to  hold  in  religion,  in 
physics,  and  in  politics ;  and  Machiavel  is  quoted  for  having 
established  it  in  the  last  of  these.  Now  though  this  axiom 
be  generally,  it  is  not  universally,  true ;  and,  to  say  nothing 
of  physics,  it  will  not  be  hard  to  produce,  in  contradiction  to 
it,  examples  of  religious  and  civil  institutions  that  would 
have  perished  if  they  had  been  kept  strictly  to  their  first 
principles,  and  that  have  been  supported  by  departing  more 
or  less  from  them.  It  may  seem  justly  matter  of  wonder 
that  the  author  of  the  «  Advancement  of  Learning  »  should 
espouse  this  maxim  in  religion  and  politics,  as  well  as  phys- 
ics, so  absolutely,  and  that  he  should  place  it  as  an  axiom 
of  his  first  philosophy  relatively  to  the  three,  since  he  could 
not  do  it  without  falling  into  the  abuse  he  condemns  so 


298  BOLINGBROKE 

much  in  his  «  Organura  Novum » — the  abuse  philosophers 
are  guilty  of  when  they  suffer  the  mind  to  rise  too  fast,  as 
it  is  apt  to  do,  from  particulars  to  remote  and  general 
axioms.  That  the  author  of  the  « Political  Discourses » 
should  fall  into  this  abuse  is  not  at  all  strange.  The  same 
abuse  runs  through  all  his  writings,  in  which,  among  many 
wise  and  many  wicked  reflections  and  precepts,  he  estab- 
lishes frequently  general  maxims  or  rules  of  conduct  on  a 
few  particular  examples,  and  sometimes  on  a  single  exam- 
ple. Upon  the  whole  matter,  one  of  these  axioms  commu- 
nicates no  knowledge  but  that  which  we  must  have  before 
we  can  know  the  axiom,  and  the  other  may  betray  us  into 
great  error  when  we  apply  it  to  use  and  action.  One  is 
unprofitable,  the  other  dangerous ;  and  the  philosophy  which 
admits  them  as  principles  of  general  knowledge  deserves  ill 
to  be  reputed  philosophy.  It  would  have  been  just  as  use- 
ful, and  much  more  safe,  to  admit  into  this  receptacle  of 
axioms  those  self-evident  and  necessary  truths  alone  of 
which  we  have  an  immediate  perception,  since  they  are  not 
confined  to  any  special  parts  of  science,  but  are  common  to 
several,  or  to  all.  Thus  these  profitable  axioms,  «  What  is, 
is,»  « The  whole  is  bigger  than  apart,))  and  divers  others, 
might  serve  to  enlarge  the  spring-head  of  a  first  philosophy, 
and  be  of  excellent  use  in  arguing  ex  pracognitis  et  prcecon- 
cessis. 

If  you  ask  me  now  what  I  understand  then  by  a  first  phi- 
losophy, my  answer  will  be  such  as  I  suppose  you  already 
prepared  to  receive.  I  understand  by  a  first  philosophy, 
that  which  deserves  the  first  place  on  account  of  the  dignity 
and  importance  of  its  objects,  natural  theology  or  theism, 
and  natural  religion  or  ethics.  If  we  consider  the  order  of 
the  sciences  in  their  rise  and  progress,  the  first  place  be- 
longs to  natural  philosophy,  the  mother  of  them  all,  or  the 
trunk,  the  tree  of  knowledge,  out  of  which,  and  in  propor- 
tion to  which,  like  so  many  branches,  they  all  grow.  These 
branches  spread  wide,  and  bear  even  fruits  of  different 
kinds.  But  the  sap  that  made  them  shoot,  and  makes  them 
flourish,  rises  from  the  root  through  the  trunk,  and  their 
productions  are  varied  according  to  the  variety  of  strainers 
through  which  it  flows.     In  plain  terms,  I  speak  not  here  of 


RETICENCE   IN   CRICICISM  299 

supernatural,  or  revealed  science ;  and  therefore  I  say  that 
all  science,  if  it  be  real,  must  rise  from  below,  and  from  our 
own  level.  It  cannot  descend  from  above,  nor  from  supe- 
rior systems  of  being  and  knowledge.  Truth  of  existence 
is  truth  of  knowledge,  and  therefore  reason  searches  after 
them  in  one  of  these  scenes,  where  both  are  to  be  found  to- 
gether, and  are  within  our  reach ;  whilst  imagination  hopes 
fondly  to  find  them  in  another,  where  both  of  them  are  to 
be  found,  but  surely  not  by  us.  The  notices  we  receive 
from  without  concerning  the  beings  that  surround  us,  and 
the  inward  consciousness  we  have  of  our  own,  are  the 
foundations,  and  the  true  criterions  too,  of  all  the  knowl- 
edge we  acquire  of  body  and  of  mind :  and  body  and  mind 
are  objects  alike  of  natural  philosophy.  We  assume  com- 
monly that  they  are  two  distinct  substances.  Be  it  so. 
They  are  still  united,  and  blended,  as  it  were,  together,  in 
one  human  nature :  and  all  natures,  united  or  not,  fall  with- 
in the  province  of  natural  philosophy.  On  the  hypothesis 
indeed  that  body  and  soul  are  two  distinct  substances,  one 
of  which  subsists  after  the  dissolution  of  the  other,  certain 
men,  who  have  taken  the  whimsical  title  of  metaphysicians, 
as  if  they  had  science  beyond  the  bounds  of  Nature,  or  of 
Nature  discoverable  by  others,  have  taken  likewise  to  them- 
selves  the  doctrine  of  mind;  and  have  left  that  of  body, 
under  the  name  of  physics,  to  a  supposed  inferior  order  of 
philosophers.  But  the  right  of  these  stands  good ;  for  all 
the  knowledge  that  can  be  acquired  about  mind,  or  the 
unextended  substance  of  the  Cartesians,  must  be  acquired, 
like  that  about  body,  or  the  extended  substance,  within  the 
bounds  of  their  province,  and  by  the  means  they  employ, 
particular  experiments  and  observations.  Nothing  can  be 
true  of  mind,  any  more  than  of  body,  that  is  repugnant  to 
these ;  and  an  intellectual  hypothesis  which  is  not  supported 
by  the  intellectual  phenomena  is  at  least  as  ridiculous  as  a 
corporeal  hypothesis  which  is  not  supported  by  the  cor- 
poreal phenomena. 

If  I  have  said  thus  much  in  this  place  concerning  natural 
philosophy,  it  has  not  been  without  good  reason. 

I  consider  theology  and  ethics  as  the  first  of  sciences  in 
pre-eminence  of  rank.     But  I  consider  the  constant  contem- 


300  BOLINGBROKE 

plation  of  Nature — by  which  I  mean  the  whole  system  of 
God's  works  as  far  as  it  lies  open  to  us — as  the  common 
spring  of  all  sciences,  and  even  of  these.  What  has  been 
said  agreeably  to  this  notion  seems  to  me  evidently  true ; 
and  yet  metaphysical  divines  and  philosophers  proceed  in 
direct  contradiction  to  it,  and  have  thereby,  if  I  mistake 
not,  bewildered  themselves,  and  a  great  part  of  mankind,  in 
such  inextricable  labyrinths  of  hypothetical  reasoning,  that 
few  men  can  find  their  way  back,  and  none  can  find  it  for- 
ward into  the  road  of  truth.  To  dwell  long,  and  on  some 
points  always,  in  particular  knowledge,  tires  the  patience  of 
these  impetuous  philosophers.  They  fly  to  generals.  To 
consider  attentively  even  the  minutest  phenomena  of  body 
and  mind  mortifies  their  pride.  Rather  than  creep  up 
slowly,  a  posteriori,  to  a  little  general  knowledge,  they  soar 
at  once  as  far  and  as  high  as  imagination  can  carry  them. 
From  thence  they  descend  again,  armed  with  systems  and 
arguments  a  priori ;  and,  regardless  how  these  agree  or 
clash  with  the  phenomena  of  Nature,  they  impose  them  on 
mankind. 

It  is  this  manner  of  philosophizing,  this  preposterous 
method  of  beginning  our  search  after  truth  out  of  the 
bounds  of  human  knowledge,  or  of  continuing  it  beyond 
them,  that  has  corrupted  natural  theology  and  natural  re- 
ligion in  all  ages.  They  have  been  corrupted  to  such  a  de- 
gree that  it  is  grown,  and  was  so  long  since,  as  necessary 
to  plead  the  cause  of  God,  if  I  may  use  this  expression  after 
Seneca,  against  the  divine  as  against  the  atheist;  to  assert 
his  existence  against  the  latter,  to  defend  his  attributes 
against  the  former,  and  to  justify  his  providence  against 
both.  To  both  a  sincere  and  humble  theist  might  say  very 
properly,  « I  make  no  difference  between  you  on  many  occa- 
sions, because  it  is  indifferent  whether  you  deny  or  defame 
the  Supreme  Being.))  Nay,  Plutarch,  though  little  orthodox 
in  theology,  was  not  in  the  wrong  perhaps  when  he  declared 
the  last  to  be  the  worst. 

In  treating  the  subjects  about  which  I  shall  write  to  you 
in  these  letters  or  essays,  it  will  be  therefore  necessary  to 
distinguish  genuine  and  pure  theism  from  the  unnatural 
and  profane  mixtures  of  human  imagination — what  we  can 


RETICENCE   IN   CRITICISM  301 

know  of  God  from  what  we  cannot  know.  This  is  the  more 
necessary,  too,  because,  whilst  true  and  false  notions  about 
God  and  religion  are  blended  together  in  our  minds  under 
one  specious  name  of  science,  the  false  are  more  likely  to 
make  men  doubt  of  the  true,  as  it  often  happens,  than  to  per- 
suade men  that  they  are  true  themselves.  Now,  in  order 
to  this  purpose,  nothing  can  be  more  effectual  than  to  go  to 
the  root  of  error,  of  that  primitive  error  which  encourages 
our  curiosity,  sustains  our  pride,  fortifies  our  prejudices, 
and  gives  pretence  to  delusion.  This  primitive  error  con- 
sists in  the  high  opinion  we  are  apt  to  entertain  of  the 
human  mind,  though  it  holds,  in  truth,  a  very  low  rank  in 
the  intellectual  system.  To  cure  this  error  we  need  only 
turn  our  eyes  inward,  and  contemplate  impartially  what 
passes  there  from  the  infancy  to  the  maturity  of  the  mind. 
Thus  it  will  not  be  difficult,  and  thus  alone  it  is  possible,  to 
discover  the  true  nature  of  human  knowledge — how  far  it 
extends,  how  far  it  is  real,  and  where  and  how  it  begins  to 
be  fantastical. 

Such  an  inquir)%  if  it  cannot  check  the  presumption  nor 
humble  the  pride  of  metaphysicians,  may  serve  to  unde- 
ceive others.  Locke  pursued  it ;  he  grounded  all  he  taught 
on  the  phenomena  of  Nature ;  he  appealed  to  the  experience 
and  conscious  knowledge  of  every  one,  and  rendered  all  he 
advanced  intelligible.  Leibnitz,  one  of  the  vainest  and 
most  chimerical  men  that  ever  got  a  name  in  philosophy, 
and  who  is  often  so  unintelligible  that  no  man  ought  to  be- 
lieve he  understood  himself,  censured  Locke  as  a  superficial 
philosopher.  What  has  happened?  The  philosophy  of  one 
has  forced  its  way  into  general  approbation,  that  of  the  other 
has  carried  no  conviction  and  scarce  any  information  to  those 
who  have  misspent  their  time  about  it.  To  speak  the  truth, 
though  it  may  seem  a  paradox,  our  knowledge  on  many  sub- 
jects, and  particularly  on  those  which  we  intend  here,  must 
be  superficial  to  be  real.  This  is  the  condition  of  humanity. 
We  are  placed,  as  it  were,  in  an  intellectual  twilight,  where 
we  discover  but  few  things  clearly,  and  none  entirely,  and 
yet  see  just  enough  to  tempt  us  with  the  hope  of  making 
better  and  more  discoveries.  Thus  flattered,  men  push 
their  inquiries  on,  and  may  be  properly  enough  compared  to 


302  BOLINGBROKE 

Ixion,  who  ((imagined  he  had  Juno  in  his  arms  whilst  he 
embraced  a  cloud. » 

To  be  contented  to  know  things  as  God  has  made  us  capa- 
ble of  knowing  them  is,  then,  a  first  principle  necessary  to 
secure  us  from  falling  into  error ;  and  if  there  is  any  sub- 
ject upon  which  we  should  be  most  on  our  guard  against 
error,  it  is  surely  that  which  I  have  called  here  the  first 
philosophy.  God  is  hid  from  us  in  the  majesty  of  His  na- 
ture, and  the  little  we  discover  of  Him  must  be  discovered 
by  the  light  that  is  reflected  from  His  works.  Out  of  this 
light,  therefore,  we  should  never  go  in  our  inquiries  and 
reasonings  about  His  nature,  His  attributes,  and  the  order 
of  His  providence;  and  yet  upon  these  subjects  men  depart 
the  furthest  from  it — nay,  they  who  depart  the  furthest  are 
the  best  heard  by  the  bulk  of  mankind.  The  less  men 
know,  the  more  they  believe  that  they  know.  Belief  passes 
in  their  minds  for  knowledge,  and  the  very  circumstances 
which  should  beget  doubt  produce  increase  of  faith.  Every 
glittering  apparition  that  is  pointed  out  to  them  in  the  vast 
wild  of  imagination  passes  for  a  reality ;  and  the  more  dis- 
tant, the  more  confused,  the  more  incomprehensible  it  is, 
the  more  sublime  it  is  esteemed.  He  who  should  attempt 
to  shift  these  scenes  of  airy  vision  for  those  of  real  knowl- 
edge might  expect  to  be  treated  with  scorn  and  anger  by 
the  whole  theological  and  metaphysical  tribe,  the  masters 
and  the  scholars ;  he  would  be  despised  as  a  plebeian  philos- 
opher, and  railed  at  as  an  infidel.  It  would  be  sounded 
high  that  he  debased  human  nature,  which  has  a  ((cogna- 
tion,)) so  the  reverend  and  learned  Doctor  Cudworth  calls  it, 
with  the  divine ;  that  the  soul  of  man,  immaterial  and  im- 
mortal by  its  nature,  was  made  to  contemplate  higher  and 
nobler  objects  than  this  sensible  world,  and  even  than  itself, 
since  it  was  made  to  contemplate  God  and  to  be  united  to 
Him.  In  such  clamor  as  this  the  voice  of  truth  and  of  rea- 
son would  be  drowned,  and,  with  both  of  them  on  his  side, 
he  who  opposed  it  would  make  many  enemies  and  few  con- 
verts— nay,  I  am  apt  to  think  that  some  of  these,  if  he  made 
any,  would  say  to  him,  as  soon  as  the  gaudy  visions  of  error 
were  dispelled,  and  till  they  were  accustomed  to  the  sim- 
plicity of  truth,  «Pol  me  occidistis.»     Prudence  forbids  me, 


RETICENCE   IN   CRITICISM  303 

therefore,  to  write  as  I  think  to  the  world,  whilst  friendship 
forbids  me  to  write  otherwise  to  you.  I  have  been  a  martyr 
of  faction  in  politics,  and  have  no  vocation  to  be  so  in  phi- 
losophy. 

But  there  is  another  consideration  which  deserves  more 
regard,  because  it  is  of  a  public  nature,  and  because  the 
common  interests  of  society  may  be  affected  by  it.  Truth 
and  falsehood,  knowledge  and  ignorance,  revelations  of  the 
Creator,  inventions  of  the  creature,  dictates  of  reason,  sallies 
of  enthusiasm,  have  been  blended  so  long  together  in  our 
systems  of  theology  that  it  may  be  thought  dangerous  to 
separate  them,  lest  by  attacking  some  parts  of  these  sys- 
tems we  should  shake  the  whole.  It  may  be  thought  that 
error  itself  deserves  to  be  respected  on  this  account,  and 
that  men  who  are  deluded  for  their  good  should  be  de- 
luded on. 

Some  such  reflections  as  these  it  is  probable  that  Erasmus 
made  when  he  observed,  in  one  of  his  letters  to  Melancthon, 
that  Plato,  dreaming  of  a  philosophical  commonwealth,  saw 
the  impossibility  of  governing  the  multitude  without  deceiv- 
ing them.  «Let  not  Christians  lie,»  says  this  great  divine: 
«  but  let  it  not  be  thought  neither  that  every  truth  ought  to 
be  thrown  out  to  the  vulgar. »  («  Non  expedit  omnem  veri- 
tatem  prodere  vulgo.»)  Scaevola  and  Varro  were  more  ex- 
plicit than  Erasmus,  and  more  reasonable  than  Plato.  They 
held  not  only  that  many  truths  were  to  be  concealed  from 
the  vulgar,  but  that  it  was  expedient  the  vulgar  should  be- 
lieve many  things  that  were  false.  They  distinguished  at 
the  same  time,  very  rightly,  between  the  regard  due  to  re- 
ligions already  established,  and  the  conduct  to  be  held  in 
the  establishment  of  them.  The  Greek  assumed  that  men 
could  not  be  governed  by  truth,  and  erected  on  this  princi- 
ple a  fabulous  theology.  The  Romans  were  not  of  the  same 
opinion.  Varro  declared  expressly  that  if  he  had  been  to 
frame  a  new  institution,  he  would  have  framed  it  «  ex  naturae 
potius  formula.))  But  they  both  thought  that  things  evi- 
dently false  might  deserve  an  outward  respect  when  they 
are  interwoven  into  a  system  of  government.  This  outward 
respect  every  good  citizen  will  show  them  in  such  a  case, 
and  they  can  claim  no  more  in  any.     He  will  not  propagate 


304  BOLINGBROKE 

these  errors,  but  he  will  be  cautious  how  he  propagates  even 
truth  in  opposition  to  them. 

There  has  been  much  noise  made  about  free-thinking;  and 
men  have  been  animated  in  the  contest  by  a  spirit  that  be- 
comes neither  the  character  of  divines  nor  that  of  good  citi- 
zens, by  an  arbitrary  tyrannical  spirit  under  the  mask  of 
religious  zeal,  and  by  a  presumptuous  factious  spirit  under 
that  of  liberty.  If  the  first  could  prevail,  they  would  es- 
tablish implicit  belief  and  blind  obedience,  and  an  Inquisi- 
tion to  maintain  this  abject  servitude.  To  assert  antipodes 
might  become  once  more  as  heretical  as  Arianism  or  Pela- 
gianism;  and  men  might  be  dragged  to  the  jails  of  some 
Holy  Office,  like  Galileo,  for  saying  they  had  seen  what  in 
fact  they  had  seen,  and  what  every  one  else  that  pleased 
might  see.  If  the  second  could  prevail,  they  would  destroy 
at  once  the  general  influence  of  religion  by  shaking  the 
foundations  of  it  which  education  had  laid.  These  are 
wide  extremes.  Is  there  no  middle  path  in  which  a  reason- 
able man  and  a  good  citizen  may  direct  his  steps?  I  think 
there  is. 

Every  one  has  an  undoubted  right  to  think  freely — nay, 
it  is  the  duty  of  every  one  to  do  so  as  far  as  he  has  the 
necessary  means  and  opportunities.  This  duty,  too,  is  in 
no  case  so  incumbent  on  him  as  in  those  that  regard  what  I 
call  the  first  philosophy.  They  who  have  neither  means 
nor  opportunities  of  this  sort  must  submit  their  opinions  to 
authority;  and  to  what  authority  can  they  resign  themselves 
so  properly  and  so  safely  as  to  that  of  the  laws  and  consti- 
tution of  their  country?  In  general,  nothing  can  be  more 
absurd  than  to  take  opinions  of  the  greatest  moment,  and 
such  as  concern  us  the  most  intimately,  on  trust;  but  there 
is  no  help  against  it  in  many  particular  cases.  Things  the 
most  absurd  in  speculation  become  necessary  in  practice. 
Such  is  the  human  constitution,  and  reason  excuses  them  on 
the  account  of  this  necessity.  Reason  does  even  a  little 
more,  and  it  is  all  she  can  do.  She  gives  the  best  direction 
possible  to  the  absurdity.  Thus  she  directs  those  who 
must  believe  because  they  cannot  know,  to  believe  in  the 
laws  of  their  country,  and  conform  their  opinions  and  prac- 
tice to  those  of  their  ancestors,  to  those  of  Coruncanius,  of 


RETICENCE   IN   CRITICISM  305 

Scipio,  of  Scsevola — not  to  those  of  Zeno,  of  Cleanthes,  of 
Chrysippus. 

But  now  the  same  reason  that  gives  this  direction  to  such 
men  as  these  will  give  a  very  contrary  direction  to  those 
who  have  the  means  and  opportunities  the  others  want.  Far 
from  advising  them  to  submit  to  this  mental  bondage,  she 
will  advise  them  to  employ  their  whole  industry  to  exert  the 
utmost  freedom  of  thought,  and  to  rest  on  no  authority  but 
hers — that  is,  their  own.  She  will  speak  to  them  in  the 
language  of  the  Soufys,  a  sect  of  philosophers  in  Persia  that 
travellers  have  mentioned.  «Doubt,»  say  these  wise  and 
honest  freethinkers,  «is  the  key  of  knowledge.  He  who 
never  doubts,  never  examines.  He  who  never  examines, 
discovers  nothing.  He  who  discovers  nothing,  is  blind  and 
will  remain  so.  If  you  find  no  reasor?  to  doubt  concerning 
the  opinions  of  your  fathers,  keep  to  them;  they  will  be 
sufficient  for  you.  If  you  find  any  reason  to  doubt  concern- 
ing them,  seek  the  truth  quietly,  but  take  care  not  to  disturb 
the  minds  of  other  men.» 

Let  us  proceed  agreeably  to  these  maxims.  Let  us  seek 
truth,  but  seek  it  quietly  as  well  as  freely.  Let  us  not  im- 
agine, like  some  who  are  called  free-thinkers,  that  every 
man,  who  can  think  and  judge  for  himself,  as  he  has  a  right 
to  do,  has  therefore  a  right  of  speaking,  any  more  than  of 
acting,  according  to  the  full  freedom  of  his  thoughts.  The 
freedom  belongs  to  him  as  a  rational  creature ;  he  lies  under 
the  restraint  as  a  member  of  society. 

If  the  religion  we  profess  contained  nothing  more  than 
articles  of  faith  and  points  of  doctrine  clearly  revealed  to 
us  in  the  Gospel,  we  might  be  obliged  to  renounce  our  natu- 
ral freedom  of  thought  in  favor  of  this  supernatural  author- 
ity. But  since  it  is  notorious  that  a  certain  order  of  men, 
who  call  themselves  the  Church,  have  been  employed  to 
make  and  propagate  a  theological  system  of  their  own, 
which  they  call  Christianity,  from  the  days  of  the  Apostles, 
and  even  from  these  days  inclusively,  it  is  our  duty  to  ex- 
amine and  analyze  the  whole,  that  we  may  distinguish  what 
is  divine  from  what  is  human;  adhere  to  the  first  implicitly, 
and  ascribe  to  the  last  no  more  authority  than  the  word  of 
man  deserves. 
20 


306  BOLINGBROKE 

Such  an  examination  is  the  more  necessary  to  be  under- 
taken by  every  one  who  is  concerned  for  the  truth  of  his 
religion  and  for  the  honor  of  Christianity,  because  the  first 
preachers  of  it  were  not,  and  they  who  preach  it  still  are 
not,  agreed  about  many  of  the  most  important  points  of 
their  system ;  because  the  controversies  raised  by  these  men 
have  banished  union,  peace,  and  charity  out  of  the  Christian 
world;  and  because  some  parts  of  the  system  savor  so 
much  of  superstition  and  enthusiasm  that  all  the  prejudices 
of  education  and  the  whole  weight  of  civil  and  ecclesiastical 
power  can  hardly  keep  them  in  credit.  These  considera- 
tions deserve  the  more  attention  because  nothing  can  be 
more  true  than  what  Plutarch  said  of  old,  and  my  Lord 
Bacon  has  said  since :  one,  that  superstition,  and  the  other, 
that  vain  controversies  are  principal  causes  of  atheism. 

I  neither  expect  nor  desire  to  see  any  public  revision  made 
of  the  present  system  of  Christianity.  I  should  fear  an  at- 
tempt to  alter  the  established  religion  as  much  as  they  who 
have  the  most  bigot  attachment  to  it,  and  for  reasons  as 
good  as  theirs,  though  not  entirely  the  same.  I  speak  only 
of  the  duty  of  every  private  man  to  examine  for  himself, 
which  would  have  an  immediate  good  effect  relatively  to 
himself,  and  might  have  in  time  a  good  effect  relatively 
to  the  public,  since  it  would  dispose  the  minds  of  men  to  a 
greater  indifference  about  theological  disputes,  which  are 
the  disgrace  of  Christianity  and  have  been  the  plagues  of 
the  world. 

Will  you  tell  me  that  private  judgment  must  submit  to  the 
established  authority  of  Fathers  and  Councils?  My  answer 
shall  be  that  the  Fathers,  ancient  and  modern,  in  Councils 
and  out  of  them,  have  raised  that  immense  system  of  artifi- 
cial theology  by  which  genuine  Christianity  is  perverted 
and  in  which  it  is  lost.  These  Fathers  are  fathers  of  the 
worst  sort,  such  as  contrive  to  keep  their  children  in  a  per- 
petual state  of  infancy,  that  they  may  exercise  perpetual 
and  absolute  dominion  over  them.  «  Quo  magis  regnum  in 
illos  exerceant  pro  sua  libidine.»  I  call  their  theology  arti- 
ficial, because  it  is  in  a  multitude  of  instances  conformable 
neither  to  the  religion  of  Nature  nor  to  Gospel  Christianity, 
but  often  repugnant  to  both,  though  said  to  be  founded  on 


RETICENCE    IN   CRITICISM  307 

them.  I  shall  have  occasion  to  mention  several  such  in- 
stances in  the  course  of  these  little  essays.  Here  I  will  only 
observe  that  if  it  be  hard  to  conceive  how  anything  so  ab- 
surd as  the  pagan  theology  stands  represented  by  the 
Fathers  who  wrote  against  it,  and  as  it  really  was,  could 
ever  gain  credit  among  rational  creatures,  it  is  full  as  hard 
to  conceive  how  the  artificial  theology  we  speak  of  could 
ever  prevail,  not  only  in  ages  of  ignorance,  but  in  the  most 
enlightened.  There  is  a  letter  of  St.  Austin  wherein  he 
says  that  he  was  ashamed  of  himself  when  he  refuted  the 
opinions  of  the  former,  and  that  he  was  ashamed  of  man- 
kind when  he  considered  that  such  absurdities  were  received 
and  defended.  The  reflections  might  be  retorted  on  the 
saint,  since  he  broached  and  defended  doctrines  as  un- 
worthy of  the  Supreme  All-Perfect  Being  as  those  which  the 
heathens  taught  concerning  their  fictitious  and  inferior 
gods.  Is  it  necessary  to  quote  any  other  than  that  by  which 
we  are  taught  that  God  has  created  numbers  of  men  for  no 
purpose  but  to  damn  them?  «Quisquis  prsedestinationis 
doctrinam  invidia  gravat,»  says  Calvin,  «aperte  maledicit 
Deo.»  Let  us  say,  «Quisquis  prsedestinationis  doctrinam 
asserit,  blasphemat.»  Let  us  not  impute  such  cruel  injus- 
tice to  the  all-perfect  Being.  Let  Austin  and  Calvin  and  all 
those  who  teach  it  be  answerable  for  it  alone.  You  may 
bring  Fathers  and  Councils  as  evidences  in  the  cause  of 
artificial  theology,  but  reason  must  be  the  judge ;  and  all 
I  contend  for  is,  that  she  should  be  so  in  the  breast  of  every 
Christian  that  can  appeal  to  her  tribunal. 

Will  you  tell  me  that  even  such  a  private  examination  of 
the  Christian  system  as  I  propose  that  every  man  who  is 
able  to  make  it  should  make  for  himself,  is  unlawful ;  and 
that,  if  any  doubts  arise  in  our  minds  concerning  religion, 
we  must  have  recourse  for  the  solution  of  them  to  some  of 
that  holy  order  which  was  instituted  by  God  Himself,  and 
which  has  been  continued  by  the  imposition  of  hands  in 
every  Christian  society,  from  the  Apostles  down  to  the  pres- 
ent clergy?  My  answer  shall  be  shortly  this:  it  is  repug- 
nant to  all  the  ideas  of  wisdom  and  goodness  to  believe  that 
the  universal  terms  of  salvation  are  knowable  by  the  means 
of  one  order  of  men  alone,  and  that  they  continue  to  be  so 


3o8  BOLINGBROKE 

even  after  they  have  been  published  to  all  nations.  Some 
of  your  directors  will  tell  you  that  whilst  Christ  was  on  earth 
the  Apostles  were  the  Church ;  that  He  was  the  Bishop  of 
it ;  that  afterwards  the  admission  of  men  into  this  order  was 
approved,  and  confirmed  by  visions  and  other  divine  mani- 
festations; and  that  these  wonderful  proofs  of  God's  inter- 
position at  the  ordinations  and  consecrations  of  presbyters 
and  bishops  lasted  even  in  the  time  of  St.  Cyprian — that  is, 
in  the  middle  of  the  third  century.  It  is  pity  that  they 
lasted  no  longer,  for  the  honor  of  the  Church,  and  for  the 
conviction  of  those  who  do  not  sufficiently  reverence  the 
religious  society.  It  were  to  be  wished,  perhaps,  that  some 
of  the  secrets  of  electricity  were  improved  enough  to  be 
piously  and  usefully  applied  to  this  purpose.  If  we  beheld 
a  shekinah,  or  divine  presence,  like  the  flame  of  a  taper,  on 
the  heads  of  those  who  receive  the  imposition  of  hands,  we 
might  believe  that  they  receive  the  Holy  Ghost  at  the  same 
time.  But  as  we  have  no  reason  to  believe  what  supersti- 
tious, credulous,  or  lying  men  (such  as  Cyprian  himself  was) 
reported  formerly,  that  they  might  establish  the  proud  pre- 
tensions of  the  clergy,  so  we  have  no  reason  to  believe 
that  five  men  of  this  order  have  any  more  of  the  Divine 
Spirit  in  our  time,  after  they  are  ordained,  than  they  had 
before.  It  would  be  a  farce  to  provoke  laughter,  if  there 
was  no  suspicion  of  profanation  in  it,  to  see  them  gravely 
lay  hands  on  one  another,  and  bid  one  another  receive  the 
Holy  Ghost. 

Will  you  tell  me  finally,  in  opposition  to  what  has  been 
said,  and  that  you  may  anticipate  what  remains  to  be  said, 
that  laymen  are  not  only  unauthorized,  but  quite  unequal, 
without  the  assistance  of  divines,  to  the  task  I  propose?  If 
you  do,  I  shall  make  no  scruple  to  tell  you,  in  return,  that 
laymen  may  be,  if  they  please,  in  every  respect  as  fit,  and 
are  in  one  important  respect  more  fit  than  divines  to  go 
through  this  examination,  and  to  judge  for  themselves  upon 
it.  We  say  that  the  Scriptures,  concerning  the  divine  au- 
thenticity of  which  all  the  professors  of  Christianity  agree, 
are  the  sole  criterion  of  Christianity.  You  add  tradition, 
concerning  which  there  may  be,  and  there  is,  much  dispute. 
We  have,  then,   a  certain  invariable  rule  whenever  the 


RETICENCE   IN    CRITICISM  309 

Scriptures  speak  plainly.  Whenever  they  do  not  speak  of, 
we  have  this  comfortable  assurance — that  doctrines  which 
nobody  understands  are  revealed  to  nobody,  and  are  there- 
fore improper  objects  of  human  inquiry.  We  know,  too, 
that  if  we  receive  the  explanations  and  commentaries  of 
these  dark  sayings  from  the  clergy,  we  take  the  greatest 
part  of  our  religion  from  the  word  of  man,  not  from  the 
Word  of  God.  Tradition,  indeed,  however  derived,  is  not 
to  be  totally  rejected ;  for  if  it  was,  how  came  the  canon  of 
the  Scriptures,  even  of  the  Gospels,  to  be  fixed?  How  was 
it  conveyed  down  to  us?  Traditions  of  general  facts,  and 
general  propositions  plain  and  uniform,  may  be  of  some 
authority  and  use.  But  particular  anecdotical  traditions, 
whose  original  authority  is  unknown,  or  justly  suspicious, 
and  that  have  acquired  only  an  appearance  of  generality 
and  notoriety,  because  they  have  been  frequently  and  boldly 
repeated  from  age  to  age,  deserve  no  more  regard  than 
doctrines  evidently  added  to  the  Scriptures,  under  pretence 
of  explaining  and  commenting  them,  by  men  as  fallible  as 
ourselves.  We  may  receive  the  Scriptures,  and  be  persuaded 
of  their  authenticity,  on  the  faith  of  ecclesiastical  tradition ; 
but  it  seems  to  me  that  we  may  reject,  at  the  same  time,  all 
the  artificial  theology  which  has  been  raised  on  these  Scrip- 
tures by  doctors  of  the  Church,  with  as  much  right  as  they 
receive  the  Old  Testament  on  the  authority  of  Jewish  scribes 
and  doctors  whilst  they  reject  the  oral  law  and  all  rabbinical 
literature. 

He  who  examines  on  such  principles  as  these,  which  are 
conformable  to  truth  and  reason,  may  lay  aside  at  once  the 
immense  volumes  of  Fathers  and  Councils,  of  schoolmen, 
casuists,  and  controversial  writers,  which  have  perplexed 
the  world  so  long.  Natural  religion  will  be  to  such  a  man 
no  longer  intricate,  revealed  religion  will  be  no  longer  mys- 
terious, nor  the  Word  of  God  equivocal.  Clearness  and 
precision  are  two  great  excellences  of  human  laws.  How 
much  more  should  we  expect  to  find  them  in  the  law  of 
God?  They  have  been  banished  from  thence  by  artificial 
theology,  and  he  who  is  desirous  to  find  them  must  banish 
the  professors  of  it  from  his  councils,  instead  of  consulting 
them.     He  must  seek  for  genuine  Christianity  with  that 


310  BOLINGBROKE 

simplicity  of  spirit  with  which  it  is  taught  in  the  Gospel  by 
Christ  Himself.  He  must  do  the  very  reverse  of  what  has 
been  done  by  the  persons  you  advise  him  to  consult. 

You  see  that  I  have  said  what  has  been  said,  on  a  suppo- 
sition that,  however  obscure  theology  may  be,  the  Christian 
religion  is  extremely  plain,  and  requires  no  great  learning 
nor  deep  meditation  to  develop  it.  But  if  it  was  not  so 
plain,  if  both  these  were  necessary  to  develop  it,  is  great 
learning  the  monopoly  of  the  clergy  since  the  resurrection 
of  letters,  as  a  little  learning  was  before  that  era?  Is  deep 
meditation  and  justness  of  reasoning  confined  to  men  of 
that  order  by  a  peculiar  and  exclusive  privilege?  In  short, 
and  to  ask  a  question  which  experience  will  decide,  have 
these  men  who  boast  that  they  are  appointed  by  God  « to  be 
the  interpreters  of  His  secret  will,  to  represent  His  person, 
and  to  answer  in  His  name,  as  it  were,  out  of  the  sanctuary  » 
— have  these  men,  I  say,  been  able  in  more  than  seventeen 
centuries  to  establish  an  uniform  system  of  revealed  religion 
— for  natural  religion  never  wanted  their  help  among  the 
civil  societies  of  Christians — or  even  in  their  own?  They 
do  not  seem  to  have  aimed  at  this  desirable  end.  Divided 
as  they  have  always  been,  they  have  always  studied  in  order 
to  believe,  and  to  take  upon  trust,  or  to  find  matter  of 
discourse,  or  to  contradict  and  confute,  but  never  to  con- 
sider impartially  nor  to  use  a  free  judgment.  On  the  con- 
trary, they  who  have  attempted  to  use  this  freedom  of  judg- 
ment have  been  constantly  and  cruelly  persecuted  by  them. 

The  first  steps  toward  the  establishment  of  artificial  the- 
ology, which  has  passed  for  Christianity  ever  since,  were 
enthusiastical.  They  were  not  heretics  alone  who  delighted 
in  wild  allegories  and  the  pompous  jargon  of  mystery ;  they 
were  the  orthodox  Fathers  of  the  first  ages,  they  were  the 
disciples  of  the  Apostles,  or  the  scholars  of  their  disciples ; 
for  the  truth  of  which  I  may  appeal  to  the  epistles  and  other 
writings  of  these  men  that  are  extant — to  those  of  Clemens, 
of  Ignatius,  or  of  Irenaeus,  for  instance — and  to  the  visions 
of  Hermes,  that  have  so  near  a  resemblance  to  the  produc- 
tions of  Bunyan. 

The  next  steps  of  the  same  kind  were  rhetorical.  They 
were  made  by  men  who  declaimed  much  and  reasoned  ill, 


RETICENCE   IN   CRITICISM  311 

but  who  imposed  on  the  imaginations  of  others  by  the  heat 
of  their  own,  by  their  hyperboles,  their  exaggerations,  the 
acrimony  of  their  style,  and  their  violent  invectives.  Such 
were  the  Chrysostoms,  the  Jeromes,  an  Hilarius,  a  Cyril, 
and  most  of  the  Fathers. 

The  last  of  the  steps  I  shall  mention  were  logical,  and 
these  were  made  very  opportunely  and  very  advantageously 
for  the  Church  and  for  artificial  theology.  Absurdity  in 
speculation  and  superstition  in  practice  had  been  cultivated 
so  long,  and  were  become  so  gross,  that  men  began  to  see 
through  the  veils  that  had  been  thrown  over  them,  as  ig- 
norant as  those  ages  were.  Then  the  schoolmen  arose.  I 
need  not  display  their  character;  it  is  enough  known.  This 
only  I  will  say — that  having  very  few  materials  of  knowledge 
and  much  subtilty  of  wit  they  wrought  up  systems  of  fancy 
on  the  little  they  knew,  and  invented  an  art,  by  the  help 
of  Aristotle,  not  of  enlarging,  but  of  puzzling,  knowledge 
with  technical  terms,  with  definitions,  distinctions,  and  syl- 
logisms merely  verbal.  They  taught  what  they  could  not 
explain,  evaded  what  they  could  not  answer,  and  he  who 
had  the  most  skill  in  this  art  might  put  to  silence,  when  it 
came  into  general  use,  the  man  who  was  consciously  certain 
that  he  had  truth  and  reason  on  his  side. 

The  authority  of  the  schools  lasted  till  the  resurrection  of 
letters.  But  as  soon  as  real  knowledge  was  enlarged,  and 
the  conduct  of  the  understanding  better  understood,  it  fell 
into  contempt.  The  advocates  of  artificial  theology  have 
had  since  that  time  a  very  hard  task.  They  have  been 
obliged  to  defend  in  the  light  what  was  imposed  in  the  dark, 
and  to  acquire  knowledge  to  justify  ignorance.  They  were 
drawn  to  it  with  reluctance.  But  learning,  that  grew  up 
among  the  laity,  and  controversies  with  one  another,  made 
this  unavoidable,  which  was  not  eligible  on  the  principles 
of  ecclesiastical  policy.  They  have  done  with  these  new 
arms  all  that  great  parts,  great  pains,  and  great  zeal  could 
do  under  such  disadvantages,  and  we  may  apply  to  this 
order,  on  this  occasion,  «si  Pergama  dextra,»  etc.  But  their 
Troy  cannot  be  defended;  irreparable  breaches  have  been 
made  in  it.  They  have  improved  in  learning  and  knowl- 
edge, but  this  improvement  has  been  general,  and  as  re- 


312  BOLINGBROKE 

markable  at  least  among  the  laity  as  among  the  clergy.  Be- 
sides which  it  must  be  owned  that  the  former  have  had  in 
this  respect  a  sort  of  indirect  obligation  to  the  latter ;  for 
whilst  these  men  have  searched  into  antiquity,  have  im- 
proved criticism,  and  almost  exhausted  subtilty,  they  have 
furnished  so  many  arms  the  more  to  such  of  the  others  as 
do  not  submit  implicitly  to  them,  but  examine  and  judge 
for  themselves.  By  refuting  one  another,  when  they  differ, 
they  have  made  it  no  hard  matter  to  refute  them  all  when 
they  agree.  And  I  believe  there  are  few  books  written  to 
propagate  or  defend  the  received  notions  of  artificial  the- 
ology which  may  not  be  refuted  by  the  books  themselves. 
I  conclude,  on  the  whole,  that  laymen  have,  or  need  to  have, 
no  want  of  the  clergy  in  examining  and  analyzing  the  relig- 
ion they  profess. 

But  I  said  that  they  are  in  one  important  respect  more  fit 
to  go  through  this  examination  without  the  help  of  divines 
than  with  it.  A  layman  who  seeks  the  truth  may  fall  into 
error ;  but  as  he  can  have  no  interest  to  deceive  himself,  so 
he  has  none  of  profession  to  bias  his  private  judgment,  any 
more  than  to  engage  him  to  deceive  others.  Now,  the 
clergyman  lies  strongly  under  this  influence  in  every  com- 
munion. How,  indeed,  should  it  be  otherwise?  Theology 
is  become  one  of  those  sciences  which  Seneca  calls  «  scien- 
tial in  lucrum  exeuntes ; »  and  sciences,  like  arts  whose  ob- 
ject is  gain,  are,  in  good  English,  trades.  Such  theology 
is,  and  men  who  could  make  no  fortune,  except  the  lowest, 
in  any  other,  make  often  the  highest  in  this ;  for  the  proof 
of  which  assertion  I  might  produce  some  signal  instances 
among  my  lords  the  bishops.  The  consequence  has  been 
uniform ;  for  how  ready  soever  the  tradesmen  of  one  Church 
are  to  expose  the  false  wares — that  is,  the  errors  and  abuses 
— of  another,  they  never  admit  that  there  are  any  in  their 
own ;  and  he  who  admitted  this  in  some  particular  instance 
would  be  driven  out  of  the  ecclesiastical  company  as  a  false 
brother  and  one  who  spoiled  the  trade. 

Thus  it  comes  to  pass  that  new  Churches  may  be  estab- 
lished by  the  dissensions,  but  that  old  ones  cannot  be  re- 
formed by  the  concurrence,  of  the  clergy.  There  is  no 
composition  to  be  made  with  this  order  of  men.     He  who 


RETICENCE   IN    CRITICISM 


313 


does  not  believe  all  they  teach  in  every  communion  is  re- 
puted nearly  as  criminal  as  he  who  believes  no  part  of  it. 
He  who  cannot  assent  to  the  Athanasian  Creed,  of  which 
Archbishop  Tillotson  said,  as  I  have  heard,  that  he  wished 
we  were  well  rid,  would  receive  no  better  quarter  than  an 
atheist  from  the  generality  of  the  clergy.  What  recourse 
now  has  a  man  who  cannot  be  thus  implicit?  Some  have 
run  into  scepticism,  some  into  atheism,  and,  for  fear  of 
being  imposed  on  by  others,  have  imposed  on  themselves. 
The  way  to  avoid  these  extremes  is  that  which  has  been 
chalked  out  in  this  introduction.  We  may  think  freely 
without  thinking  as  licentiously  as  divines  do  when  they 
raise  a  system  of  imagination  on  true  foundations,  or  as 
sceptics  do  when  they  renounce  all  knowledge,  or  as  atheists 
do  when  they  attempt  to  demolish  the  foundations  of  all 
religion  and  reject  demonstration.  As  we  think  for  our- 
selves, we  may  keep  our  thoughts  to  ourselves,  or  communi- 
cate them  with  a  due  reserve  and  in  such  a  manner  only  as 
it  may  be  done  without  offending  the  laws  of  our  country 
and  disturbing  the  public  peace. 

I  cannot  conclude  my  discourse  on  this  occasion  better 
than  by  putting  you  in  mind  of  a  passage  you  quoted  to  me 
once,  with  great  applause,  from  a  sermon  of  Foster,  and  to 
this  effect:  « Where  mystery  begins,  religion  ends.»  The 
apothegm  pleased  me  much,  and  I  was  glad  to  hear  such 
a  truth  from  any  pulpit,  since  it  shows  an  inclination,  at 
least,  to  purify  Christianity  from  the  leaven  of  artificial 
theology,  which  consists  principally  in  making  things  that 
are  very  plain  mysterious,  and  in  pretending  to  make  things 
that  are  impenetrably  mysterious  very  plain.  If  you  con- 
tinue still  of  the  same  mind,  I  shall  have  no  excuse  to  make 
to  you  for  what  I  have  written  and  shall  write.  Our  opin- 
ions coincide.  If  you  have  changed  your  mind,  think  again 
and  examine  further.  You  will  find  that  it  is  the  modest, 
not  the  presumptuous,  inquirer  who  makes  a  real  and  safe 
progress  in  the  discovery  of  divine  truths.  One  follows 
Nature  and  Nature's  God — that  is,  he  follows  God  in  His 
works  and  in  His  Word;  nor  presumes  to  go  further,  by 
metaphysical  and  theological  commentaries  of  his  own  in- 
vention, than  the  two  texts,  if  I  may  use  this  expression, 


3H  BOLINGBROKE 

carry  him  very  evidently.  They  who  have  done  otherwise, 
and  have  affected  to  discover,  by  a  supposed  science  derived 
from  tradition  or  taught  in  the  schools,  more  than  they  who 
have  not  such  science  car.  discover  concerning  the  nature, 
physical  and  moral,  of  the  Supreme  Being,  and  concerning 
the  secrets  of  His  providence,  have  been  either  enthusiasts 
or  knaves,  or  else  of  that  numerous  tribe  who  reason  well 
very  often,  but  reason  always  on  some  arbitrary  supposition. 
Much  of  this  character  belonged  to  the  heathen  divines, 
and  it  is  in  all  its  parts  peculiarly  that  of  the  ancient  Fathers 
and  modern  doctors  of  the  Christian  Church.  The  former 
had  reason,  but  no  revelation,  to  guide  them ;  and  though 
reason  be  always  one,  we  cannot  wonder  that  different  prej- 
udices and  different  tempers  of  imagination  warped  it  in 
them  on  such  subjects  as  these,  and  produced  all  the  extra- 
vagances of  their  theology.  The  latter  had  not  the  excuse 
of  human  frailty  to  make  in  mitigation  of  their  presump- 
tion. On  the  contrary,  the  consideration  of  this  frailty, 
inseparable  from  their  nature,  aggravated  their  presump- 
tion. They  had  a  much  surer  criterion  than  human  reason ; 
they  had  divine  reason  and  the  Word  of  God  to  guide  them 
and  to  limit  their  inquiries.  How  came  they  to  go  beyond 
this  criterion?  Many  of  the  first  preachers  were  led  into  it 
because  they  preached  or  wrote  before  there  was  any  such 
criterion  established,  in  the  acceptance  of  which  they  all 
agreed,  because  they  preached  or  wrote,  in  the  mean  time, 
on  the  faith  of  tradition  and  on  a  confidence  that  they  were 
persons  extraordinarily  gifted.  Other  reasons  succeeded 
these.  Skill  in  languages,  not  the  gift  of  tongues,  some 
knowledge  of  the  Jewish  cabala  and  some  of  heathen  phi- 
losophy, of  Plato's  especially,  made  them  presume  to  com- 
ment, and  under  that  pretence  to  enlarge  the  system  of 
Christianity  with  as  much  license  as  they  could  have  taken 
if  the  word  of  man,  instead  of  the  Word  of  God,  had  been 
concerned,  and  they  had  commented  the  civil,  not  the 
divine,  law.  They  did  this  so  copiously  that,  to  give  one 
instance  of  it,  the  exposition  of  St.  Matthew's  Gospel  took 
up  ninety  homilies,  and  that  of  St.  John's  eighty-seven,  in 
the  works  of  Chr3Tsostom ;  which  puts  me  in  mind  of  a  Puri- 
tanical parson  who,  if  I  mistake  not — for  I  have  never  looked 


RETICENCE   IN    CRITICISM  315 

into  the  folio  since  I  was  a  boy  and  condemned  sometimes 
to  read  in  it — made  one  hundred  and  nineteen  sermons  on 
the  hundred  and  nineteenth  Psalm. 

Now  all  these  men,  both  heathens  and  Christians,  ap- 
peared gigantic  forms  through  the  false  medium  of  imagi- 
nation and  habitual  prejudice ;  but  were,  in  truth,  as  arrant 
dwarfs  in  the  knowledge  to  which  they  pretended  as  you 
and  I  and  all  the  sons  of  Adam.  The  former,  however,  de- 
served some  excuse ;  the  latter  none.  The  former  made  a 
very  ill  use  of  their  reason,  no  doubt,  when  they  presumed 
to  dogmatize  about  the  divine  nature,  but  they  deceived 
nobody.  What  they  taught,  they  taught  on  their  own  au- 
thority, which  every  other  man  was  at  liberty  to  receive  or 
reject  as  he  approved  or  disapproved  the  doctrine.  Chris- 
tians, on  the  other  hand,  made  a  very  ill  use  of  revelation 
and  reason  both.  Instead  of  employing  the  superior  prin- 
ciple to  direct  and  confine  the  inferior,  they  employed  it  to 
sanctify  all  that  wild  imagination,  the  passions,  and  the 
interests  of  the  ecclesiastical  order  suggested.  This  abuse 
of  revelation  was  so  scandalous  that  whilst  they  were  build- 
ing up  a  system  of  religion  under  the  name  of  Christianity, 
every  one  who  sought  to  signalize  himself  in  the  enterprise 
— and  they  were  multitudes — dragged  the  Scriptures  to  his 
opinion  by  different  interpretations,  paraphrases,  comments. 
Arius  and  Nestorius  both  pretended  that  they  had  it  on  their 
sides;  Athanasius  and  Cyril  on  theirs.  They  rendered  the 
Word  of  God  so  dubious  that  it  ceased  to  be  a  criterion, 
and  they  had  recourse  to  another — to  Councils  and  the  de- 
crees of  Councils.  He  must  be  very  ignorant  in  ecclesias- 
tical antiquity  who  does  not  know  by  what  intrigues  of  the 
contending  factions — for  such  they  were,  and  of  the  worst 
kind — these  decrees  were  obtained ;  and  yet,  an  opinion  pre- 
vailing that  the  Holy  Ghost,  the  same  Divine  Spirit  who 
dictated  the  Scriptures,  presided  in  these  assemblies  and 
dictated  their  decrees,  their  decrees  passed  for  infallible  de- 
cisions, and  sanctified,  little  by  little,  much  of  the  super- 
stition, the  nonsense,  and  even  the  blasphemy  which  the 
Fathers  taught,  and  all  "the  usurpations  of  the  Church.  This 
opinion  prevailed  and  influenced  the  minds  of  men  so  pow- 
erfully and  so  long  that  Erasmus,  who  owns  in  one  of  his 


3i6  BOLINGBROKE 

letters  that  the  writings  of  CEcolampadius  against  transttb- 
stantiation  seemed  sufficient  to  seduce  even  the  elect  («ut 
seduci  posse  videantur  etiam  electi »),  declares  in  another 
that  nothing  hindered  him  from  embracing  the  doctrine  of 
CEcolampadius  but  the  consent  of  the  Church  to  the  other 
doctrine  («nisi  obstaret  consensus  Ecclesiae»).  Thus  artifi- 
cial theology  rose  on  the  demolitions,  not  on  the  founda- 
tions, of  Christianity ;  was  incorporated  into  it ;  and  became 
a  principal  part  of  it.  How  much  it  becomes  a  good  Chris- 
tian to  distinguish  them,  in  his  private  thoughts  at  least, 
and  how  unfit  even  the  greatest,  the  most  moderate,  and 
the  least  ambitious  of  the  ecclesiastical  order  are  to  assist  us 
in  making  this  distinction,  I  have  endeavored  to  show  you 
by  reason  and  by  example. 

It  remains,  then,  that  we  apply  ourselves  to  the  study  of 
the  first  philosophy  without  any  other  guides  than  the  works 
and  the  Word  of  God.  In  natural  religion  the  clergy  are 
unnecessary,  in  revealed  they  are  dangerous  guides. 


POEMS 


BY 


THOMAS    CHATTERTON 


317 


THOMAS  CHATTERTON 


When  we  lightly  use  the  word  genius  it  would  be  well  to  have  a 
concrete  example  in  mind,  as  a  definition  that  can  be  ciearly  under- 
stood. That  which  lowers  it  as  a  mere  effort  in  painstaking  is  as  un- 
satisfactory as  the  notion  of  inspiration,  in  the  old  theological  sense. 
Perhaps  the  word  Chatterton  covers  the  matter  better  than  any  other 
brief  definition.  Shakespeare  had  or  was  a  genius,  but  a  life  of  fifty- 
two  years  has  chances  of  acquiring  and  developing  native  qualities 
which  are  denied  to  a  life  that  ends  at  eighteen.  Many  precocious 
children  have  done  wonderful  things  with  the  pen,  mostly  imitations, 
but  not  even  Shakespeare  himself  left  evidence  of  youthful  powers, 
natural  and  acquired,  at  all  comparable  with  those  of  this  Bristol  boy 
from  any  point  of  view.  Here,  then,  we  seem  to  have  a  complete  illus- 
tration of  what  we  mean  when  we  speak  of  "a  born  genius." 

He  was  born  in  1752.  His  only  schooling  was  in  the  three  R's.  An 
old  black-letter  Bible  may  have  given  him  the  taste  for  old-style  com- 
position. At  fourteen  he  was  apprenticed  to  an  attorney.  Access  to 
old  parchments  in  the  office  and  the  muniment-room  of  St.  Mary  Red- 
cliffe's  Church  inspired  him  to  compose  imaginary  local  historic  docu- 
ments in  the  phraseology  and  penmanship  of  the  fourteenth  century, 
which  he  sent  to  the  newspaper.  He  invented  a  glorious  pedigree  for 
a  local  nobody.  He  gave  an  "original"  poem  to  another,  done  by  his 
supposed  ancestor  five  centuries  agone,  and  so  he  deluged  the  town 
with  his  Manuscripts  by  the  monk  Rowley,  illustrated  by  the  author. 

That  Chatterton  was  a  poet  of  extraordinary  quality  was  admitted 
by  those  who  at  length  began  to  discover  the  deception.  With  talents 
enough  to  have  ensured  both  fame  and  fortune  even  on  the  humbler 
plane  of  antiquarian  craftsmanship,  he  preferred  to  give  his  higher 
genius  the  daring  flights  which  at  best,  if  his  harmless  trick  had  suc- 
ceeded, could  only  have  flattered  his  secret  vanity. 

Pride,  he  wrote,  was  nine-tenths  of  his  nature.  By  these  infinite 
labors  of  giving  age-stains  to  paper,  imitating  old  English  script  and 
phraseology,  superadded  to  the  composition  of  the  poems  and  prose 
pieces  thus  served  up,  Chatterton  demonstrated  how  thin  is  the  parti- 
tion between  genius  and  madness.  His  honest,  natural  work  demon- 
strates the  genius. 

In  this  infatuated,  yet  respectworthy,  pride  he  went  up  to  London, 
not  to  supplicate  but  to  command  fortune.  It  was  too  slow  in  coming, 
the  "patron  "  demanded  an  impossible  amount  of  crawling.  Impulsive 
resentment  wreaked  itself  in  self-murder,  before  that  pitiable  victim  of 
loneliness  had  learned  life's  first  lesson. 


3** 


POEMS  BY  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 


MORNING. 


Bright  sun  had  in  his  ruddy  robes  been  dight, 

From  the  red  east  he  flitted  with  his  train ; 
The  Houris  draw  away  the  gate  of  Night, 

Her  sable  tapestry  was  rent  in  twain : 
The  dancing  streaks  bedecked  heaven's  plain, 

And  on  the  dew  did  smile  with  skimmering  eye, 
Like  gouts  of  blood  which  do  black  armour  stain, 

Shining  upon  the  bourn  which  standeth  by ; 
The  soldier  stood  upon  the  hillis  side, 
Like  young  enleaved  trees  which  in  a  forest  bide. 

SPRING. 

The  budding  floweret  blushes  at  the  light, 

The  meads  be  sprinkled  with  the  yellow  hue, 
In  daisied  mantles  is  the  mountain  dight, 

The  fresh  young  cowslip  bendeth  with  the  dew ; 
The  trees  enleafed,  into  heaven  straight, 
When   gentle   winds    do  blow,    to   whistling  din  is 

brought. 
The  evening  comes,  and  brings  the  dews  along, 

The  ruddy  welkin  shineth  to  the  eyne, 
Around  the  ale-stake  minstrels  sing  the  song, 

Young  ivy  round  the  door-post  doth  entwine; 
I  lay  me  on  the  grass,  yet  to  my  will 
Albeit  all  is  fair,  there  lacketh  something  still. 

THE    PROPHECY. 

This  truth  of  old  was  sorrow's  friend — 
«  Times  at  the  worst  will  surely  mend.» 
The  difficulty's  then  to  know 
How  long  Oppression's  clock  can  go; 
319 


320  CHATTERTON 

When  Britain's  sons  may  cease  to  sigh, 
And  hope  that  their  redemption's  nigh. 

When  vile  Corruption's  brazen  face 
At  council-board  shall  take  her  place ; 
And  lords-commissioners  resort 
To  welcome  her  at  Britain's  court; 
Look  up,  ye  Britons !  cease  to  sigh, 
For  your  redemption  draweth  nigh. 

See  Pension's  harbour,  large  and  clear, 
Defended  by  St.  Stephen's  pier! 
The  entrance  safe,  by  current  led, 

Tiding  round  G 's  jetty  head; 

Look  up,  ye  Britons !  cease  to  sigh, 
For  your  redemption  draweth  nigh. 

When  civil  power  shall  snore  at  ease ; 
While  soldiers  fire — to  keep  the  peace ; 
When  murders  sanctuary  find, 
And  petticoats  can  Justice  blind ; 
Look  up,  ye  Britons!  cease  to  sigh, 
For  your  redemption  draweth  nigh. 

Commerce  o'er  Bondage  will  prevail, 
Free  as  the  wind  that  fills  her  sail. 
When  she  complains  of  vile  restraint, 
And  Power  is  deaf  to  her  complaint ; 
Look  up,  ye  Britons !  cease  to  sigh, 
For  your  redemption  draweth  nigh. 

When  at  Bute's  feet  poor  Freedom  lies, 
Mark'd  by  the  priest  for  sacrifice, 
And  doom'd  a  victim  for  the  sins 
Of  half  the  outs  and  all  the  ins ; 
Look  up,  ye  Britons !  cease  to  sigh, 
For  your  redemption  draweth  nigh. 

When  time  shall  bring  your  wish  about, 
Or,  seven-years'  lease,  you  sold,  is  out ; 
No  future  contract  to  fulfil ; 
Your  tenants  holding  at  your  will ; 


POEMS  321 

Raise  tip  your  heads !  your  right  demand — 
For  your  redemption's  in  your  hand. 

Then  is  your  time  to  strike  the  blow, 
And  let  the  slaves  of  Mammon  know, 
Britain's  true  sons  a  bribe  can  scorn, 
And  die  as  free  as  they  were  born. 
Virtue  again  shall  take  her  seat, 
And  your  redemption  stand  complete. 

BRISTOW    TRAGEDY,  OR    THE    DEATH    OF    SIR 
CHARLES   BAWDIN. 

The  feather'd  songster  chanticleer 

Had  wound  his  bugle-horn, 
And  told  the  early  villager 

The  coming  of  the  morn: 

King  Edward  saw  the  ruddy  streaks 

Of  light  eclipse  the  gray, 
And  heard  the  raven's  croaking  throat     - 

Proclaim  the  fated  day. 

«Thou'rt  right,»  quoth  he,  «for  by  the  God 

That  sits  enthroned  on  high ! 
Charles  Bawdin,  and  his  fellows  twain, 

To-day  shall  surely  die.» 

Then  with  a  jug  of  nappy  ale 

His  knights  did  on  him  wait ; 
«  Go  tell  the  traitor,  that  to-day 

He  leaves  this  mortal  state. » 

Sir  Canterlone  then  bended  low, 

With  heart  brimful  of  woe ; 
He  journey'd  to  the  castle-gate, 

And  to  Sir  Charles  did  go. 

But  when  he  came,  his  children  twain, 

And  eke  his  loving  wife, 
With  briny  tears  did  wet  the  floor, 

For  good  Sir  Charles's  life. 


322  CHATTERTON 

«  Oh  good  Sir  Charles ! »  said  Canterlone, 

«Bad  tidings  I  do  bring. » 
«Speak  boldly,  man,»  said  brave  Sir  Charles; 

«What  says  the  traitor  king?» 

« I  grieve  to  tell :  before  yon  sun 

Does  from  the  welkin  fly, 
He  hath  upon  his  honour  sworn, 

That  thou  shalt  surely  die.» 

«  We  all  must  die,»  said  brave  Sir  Charles; 

«Of  that  I'm  not  afraid; 
What  boots  to  live  a  little  space? 

Thank  Jesus,  I'm  prepared. 

But  tell  thy  king,  for  mine  he  's  not, 

I'd  sooner  die  to-day, 
Than  live  his  slave,  as  many  are, 

Though  I  should  live  for  aye.» 

Then  Canterlone  he  did  go  out, 

To  tell  the  mayor  straight 
To  get  all  things  in  readiness 

For  good  Sir  Charles's  fate. 

Then  Mr.  Canynge  sought  the  king, 

And  fell  down  on  his  knee ; 
«I'm  come,»  quoth  he,  «unto  your  grace, 

To  move  your  clemency.)) 

«Then,»  quoth  the  king,  «your  tale  speak  out, 
You  have  been  much  our  friend ; 

Whatever  your  request  may  be, 
We  will  to  it  attend. » 

«  My  noble  liege !  all  my  request 

Is  for  a  noble  knight, 
Who,  though  mayhap  he  has  done  wrong, 

He  thought  it  still  was  right. 

He  has  a  spouse  and  children  twain ; 

All  ruin'd  are  for  aye, 
If  that  you  are  resolved  to  let 

Charles  Bawdin  die  to-day. » 


POEMS  323 

« Speak  not  of  such  a  traitor  vile,» 

The  king  in  fury  said ; 
«  Before  the  evening  star  doth  shine, 

Bawdin  shall  lose  his  head: 

Justice  does  loudly  for  him  call, 

And  he  shall  have  his  meed ; 
Speak,  Mr.  Canynge !  what  thing  else 

At  present  do  you  need?>> 

«  My  noble  liege !  »  good  Canynge  said, 

«  Leave  justice  to  our  God, 
And  lay  the  iron  rule  aside ; 

Be  thine  the  olive  rod. 

Was  God  to  search  our  hearts  and  reins, 

The  best  were  sinners  great ; 
Christ's  vicar  only  knows  no  sin, 

In  all  this  mortal  state. 

Let  mercy  rule  thine  infant  reign, 

'Twill  fix  thy  crown  full  sure; 
From  race  to  race  thy  family 

All  sovereigns  shall  endure : 

But  if  with  blood  and  slaughter  thou 

Begin  thy  infant  reign, 
Thy  crown  upon  thy  children's  brows 

Will  never  long  remain.)) 

«  Canynge,  away !  this  traitor  vile 

Has  scorn'd  my  power  and  me; 
How  canst  thou  then  for  such  a  man 

Entreat  my  clemency?)) 

«  My  noble  liege !  the  truly  brave 

Will  valorous  actions  prize ; 
Respect  a  brave  and  noble  mind, 

Although  in  enemies.)) 

«  Canynge,  away !     By  God  in  heaven 

That  did  me  being  give, 
I  will  not  taste  a  bit  of  bread 

Whilst  this  Sir  Charles  doth  live ! 


324  CHATTERTON 

By  Mary,  and  all  saints  in  heaven, 

This  sun  shall  be  his  last!» 
Then  Canynge  dropp'd  a  briny  tear, 

And  from  the  presence  pass'd. 

With  heart  brimful  of  gnawing  grief, 

He  to  Sir  Charles  did  go, 
And  sat  him  down  upon  a  stool, 

And  tears  began  to  flow. 

«We  all  must  die,»  said  brave  Sir  Charles; 

dWhat  boots  it  how  or  when? 
Death  is  the  sure,  the  certain  fate, 

Of  all  we  mortal  men. 

Say  why,  my  friend,  thy  honest  soul 

Runs  over  at  thine  eye ; 
Is  it  for  my  most  welcome  doom 

That  thou  dost  child-like  cry  ? » 

Saith  godly  Canynge,  « I  do  weep, 

That  thou  so  soon  must  die, 
And  leave  thy  sons  and  helpless  wife; 

'Tis  this  that  wets  mine  eye.» 

«  Then  dry  the  tears  that  out  thine  eye 
From  godly  fountains  spring ; 

Death  I  despise,  and  all  the  power 
Of  Edward,  traitor-king. 

When  through  the  tyrant's  welcome  means 

I  shall  resign  my  life, 
The  God  I  serve  will  soon  provide 

For  both  my  sons  and  wife. 

Before  I  saw  the  lightsome  sun, 

This  was  appointed  me ; 
Shall  mortal  man  repine  or  grudge 

What  God  ordains  to  be? 

How  oft  in  battle  have  I  stood, 
When  thousands  died  around; 

When  smoking  streams  of  crimson  blood 
Imbrued  the  fatten 'd  ground. 


POEMS  325 


How  did  I  know  that  every  dart 

That  cut  the  airy  way, 
Might  not  find  passage  to  my  heart, 

And  close  mine  eyes  for  aye? 

And  shall  I  now,  for  fear  of  death, 
Look  wan  and  be  dismay 'd  ? 

No !  from  my  heart  fly  childish  fear ; 
Be  all  the  man  display 'd. 

Ah,  godlike  Henry!  God  forefend, 
And  guard  thee  and  thy  son, 

If  'tis  his  will;  but  if  'tis  not, 
Why,  then  his  will  be  done. 

My  honest  friend,  my  fault  has  been 
To  serve  God  and  my  prince ; 

And  that  I  no  time-server  am, 
My  death  will  soon  convince. 

In  London  city  was  I  born, 

Of  parents  of  great  note ; 
My  father  did  a  noble  arms 

Emblazon  on  his  coat: 

I  make  no  doubt  but  he  is  gone 

Where  soon  I  hope  to  go, 
Where  we  for  ever  shall  be  blest, 

From  out  the  reach  of  woe. 

He  taught  me  justice  and  the  laws 

With  pity  to  unite ; 
And  eke  he  taught  me  how  to  know 

The  wrong  cause  from  the  right : 

He  taught  me  with  a  prudent  hand 

To  feed  the  hungry  poor, 
Nor  let  my  servants  drive  away 

The  hungry  from  my  door: 

And  none  can  say  but  all  my  life 

I  have  his  wordis  kept; 
And  summ'd  the  actions  of  the  day 

Each  night  before  I  slept. 


326  CHATTERTON 

I  have  a  spouse,  go  ask  of  her 

If  I  defiled  her  bed? 
I  have  a  king,  and  none  can  lay 

Black  treason  on  my  head. 

In  Lent,  and  on  the  holy  eve, 

From  flesh  I  did  refrain ; 
Why  should  I  then  appear  dismay 'd 

To  leave  this  world  of  pain? 

No,  hapless  Henry!  I  rejoice 

I  shall  not  see  thy  death ; 
Most  willingly  in  thy  just  cause 

Do  I  resign  my  breath. 

Oh,  fickle  people!  ruin'd  land! 

Thou  wilt  ken  peace  no  moe ; 
While  Richard's  sons  exalt  themselves, 

Thy  brooks  with  blood  will  flow. 

Say,  were  ye  tired  of  godly  peace, 

And  godly  Henry's  reign, 
That  you  did  chop  your  easy  days 

For  those  of  blood  and  pain? 

What  though  I  on  a  sledge  be  drawn, 

And  mangled  by  a  hind, 
I  do  defy  the  traitor's  power, 

He  cannot  harm  my  mind ; 

What  though,  uphoisted  on  a  pole, 

My  limbs  shall  rot  in  air, 
And  no  rich  monument  of  brass 

Charles  Bawdin's  name  shall  bear; 

Yet  in  the  holy  book  above, 
Which  time  can't  eat  away, 

There  with  the  servants  of  the  Lord 
My  name  shall  live  for  aye. 

Then  welcome  death !  for  life  eterne 

I  leave  this  mortal  life : 
Farewell,  vain  world,  and  all  that's  dear, 

My  sons  and  loving  wife ! 


POEMS  327 

Now  death  as  welcome  to  me  comes 

As  e'er  the  month  of  May; 
Nor  would  I  even  wish  to  live, 

With  my  dear  wife  to  stay.w 

Saith  Canynge,  «'Tis  a  goodly  thing 

To  be  prepared  to  die ; 
And  from  this  world  of  pain  and  grief 

To  God  in  heaven  to  fly.» 

And  now  the  bell  began  to  toll, 

And  clarions  to  sound ; 
Sir  Charles  he  heard  the  horses'  feet 

A-prancing  on  the  ground. 

And  just  before  the  officers 

His  loving  wife  came  in, 
Weeping  unfeigned  tears  of  woe 

With  loud  and  dismal  din. 

«  Sweet  Florence !  now  I  pray  forbear, 

In  quiet  let  me  die ; 
Pray  God  that  every  Christian  soul 

May  look  on  death  as  I. 

Sweet  Florence !  why  these  briny  tears? 

They  wash  my  soul  away, 
And  almost  make  me  wish  for  life, 

With  thee,  sweet  dame,  to  stay. 

'Tis  but  a  journey  I  shall  go 

Unto  the  land  of  bliss ; 
Now,  as  a  proof  of  husband's  love 

Receive  this  holy  kiss.w 

Then  Florence,  faltering  in  her  say, 

Trembling  these  wordis  spoke: 
«Ah,  cruel  Edward!  bloody  king! 

My  heart  is  well  nigh  broke. 

Ah,  sweet  Sir  Charles !  why  wilt  thou  go 

Without  thy  loving  wife? 
The  cruel  axe  that  cuts  thy  neck, 

It  eke  shall  end  my  life. » 


328  CHATTERTON 

And  now  the  officers  came  in 
To  bring  Sir  Charles  away, 

Who  turned  to  his  loving  wife, 
And  thus  to  her  did  say : 

« I  go  to  life,  and  not  to  death, 

Trust  thou  in  God  above, 
And  teach  thy  sons  to  fear  the  Lord, 

And  in  their  hearts  him  love. 

Teach  them  to  run  the  noble  race 

That  I  their  father  run, 
Florence!  should  death  thee  take — adieu i 

Ye  officers  lead  on.» 

Then  Florence  raved  as  any  mad, 

And  did  her  tresses  tear ; 
«  Oh  stay,  my  husband,  lord,  and  life ! » 

Sir  Charles  then  dropp'd  a  tear. 

Till  tired  out  with  raving  loud, 

She  fell  upon  the  floor ; 
Sir  Charles  exerted  all  his  might, 

And  march'd  from  out  the  door. 

Upon  a  sledge  he  mounted  then, 
With  looks  full  brave  and  sweet ; 

Looks  that  enshone  no  more  concern 
Than  any  in  the  street. 

Before  him  went  the  council-men, 

In  scarlet  robes  and  gold, 
And  tassels  spangling  in  the  sun, 

Much  glorious  to  behold : 

The  friars  of  Saint  Augustine  next 

Appeared  to  the  sight, 
All  clad  in  homely  russet  weeds, 

Of  godly  monkish  plight : 

In  different  parts  a  godly  psalm 
Most  sweetly  they  did  chant ; 

Behind  their  back  six  minstrels  came, 
Who  tuned  the  strange  bataunt. 


POEMS  329 


Then  five-and-twenty  archers  came ; 

Each  one  the  bow  did  bend, 
From  rescue  of  King  Henry's  friends 

Sir  Charles  for  to  defend. 

Bold  as  a  lion  came  Sir  Charles, 
Drawn  on  a  cloth-laid  sledde, 

By  two  black  steeds  in  trappings  white, 
With  plumes  upon  their  head. 

Behind  him  five  and  twenty  more 
Of  archers  strong  and  stout, 

With  bended  bow  each  one  in  hand, 
Marched  in  goodly  rout. 

Saint  James's  friars  marched  next, 
Each  one  his  part  did  chant; 

Behind  their  backs  six  minstrels  came, 
Who  tuned  the  strange  bataunt. 

Then  came  the  mayor  and  aldermen, 

In  cloth  of  scarlet  deck'd; 
And  their  attending  men  each  one, 

Like  eastern  princes  trick 'd. 

And  after  them  a  multitude 

Of  citizens  did  throng; 
The  windows  were  all  full  of  heads, 

As  he  did  pass  along. 

And  when  he  came  to  the  high  cross, 
Sir  Charles  did  turn  and  say, 

«  O  Thou  that  savest  man  from  sin, 
Wash  my  soul  clean  this  day.» 

At  the  great  minster  window  sat 

The  king  in  mickle  state, 
To  see  Charles  Bawdin  go  along 

To  his  most  welcome  fate. 

Soon  as  the  sledde  drew  nigh  enough, 
That  Edward  he  might  hear, 

The  brave  Sir  Charles  he  did  stand  up, 
And  thus  his  words  declare : 


330  CHATTERTON 

«Thou  seest  me,  Edward!  traitor  vile! 

Exposed  to  infamy ; 
But  be  assured,  disloyal  man, 

I'm  greater  now  than  thee. 

By  foul  proceedings,  murder,  blood, 
Thou  wearest  now  a  crown ; 

And  hast  appointed  me  to  die 
By  power  not  thine  own. 

Thou  thinkest  I  shall  die  to-day; 

I  have  been  dead  till  now, 
And  soon  shall  live  to  wear  a  crown 

For  aye  upon  my  brow ; 

Whilst  thou,  perhaps,  for  some  few  years, 

Shalt  rule  this  fickle  land, 
To  let  them  know  how  wide  the  rule 

'Twixt  king  and  tyrant  hand. 

Thy  power  unjust,  thou  traitor  slave! 

Shall  fall  on  thy  own  head  » — 
From  out  of  hearing  of  the  king 

Departed  then  the  sledde. 

King  Edward's  soul  rush'd  to  his  face, 

He  turn'd  his  head  away, 
And  to  his  brother  Gloucester 

He  thus  did  speak  and  say : 

«  To  him  that  so-much-dreaded  death 

No  ghastly  terrors  bring; 
Behold  the  man !  he  spake  the  truth ; 

He's  greater  than  a  king!  » 

«  So  let  him  die!  »   Duke  Richard  said; 

«  And  may  each  one  our  foes 
Bend  down  their  necks  to  bloody  axe, 

And  feed  the  carrion  crows. » 

And  now  the  horses  gently  drew 
Sir  Charles  up  the  high  hill ; 

The  axe  did  glister  in  the  sun, 
His  precious  blood  to  spill. 


POEMS  331 


Sir  Charles  did  up  the  scaffold  go, 

As  up  a  gilded  car 
Of  victory,  by  valorous  chiefs 

Gain'd  in  the  bloody  war. 

And  to  the  people  he  did  say: 

«  Behold  you  see  me  die, 
For  serving  loyally  my  king, 

My  king  most  rightfully. 

As  long  as  Edward  rules  this  land, 

No  quiet  you  will  know; 
Your  sons  and  husbands  shall  be  slain, 

And  brooks  with  blood  shall  flow. 

You  leave  your  good  and  lawful  king, 

When  in  adversity; 
Like  me,  unto  the  true  cause  stick, 

And  for  the  true  cause  die.w 

Then  he,  with  priests,  upon  his  knees, 
A  prayer  to  God  did  make, 

Beseeching  him  unto  himself 
His  parting  soul  to  take. 

Then,  kneeling  down,  he  laid  his  head 

Most  seemly  on  the  block; 
Which  from  his  body  fair  at  once 

The  able  headsman  stroke: 

And  out  the  blood  began  to  flow, 
And  round  the  scaffold  twine ; 

And  tears,  enough  to  wash  't  away, 
Did  flow  from  each  man's  eyne. 

The  bloody  axe  his  body  fair 

Into  four  partis  cut ; 
And  every  part,  and  eke  his  head, 

Upon  a  pole  was  put. 

One  part  did  rot  on  Kinwulph-hill, 

One  on  the  minster-tower, 
And  one  from  off  the  castle-gate 

The  crowen  did  devour. 


332  CHATTERTON 

The  other  on  Saint  Paul's  good  gate, 

A  dreary  spectacle ; 
His  head  was  placed  on  the  high  cross, 

In  high  street  most  noble. 

Thus  was  the  end  of  Bawdin's  fate: 

God  prosper  long  our  king, 
And  grant  he  may,  with  Bawdin's  soul, 

In  heaven  God's  mercy  sing. 

THE   MINSTREL'S   SONG   IN    ELLA. 

O !  sing  unto  my  roundelay ; 

O !  drop  the  briny  tear  with  me ; 
Dance  no  more  at  holiday, 
Like  a  running  river  be ; 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow  tree. 

Black  his  hair  as  the  winter  night, 
White  his  neck  as  summer  snow, 
Ruddy  his  face  as  the  morning  light, 
Cold  he  lies  in  the  grave  below : 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow  tree. 

Sweet  his  tongue  as  throstle's  note, 

Quick  in  dance  as  thought  was  he ; 
Deft  his  tabor,  cudgel  stout ; 
Oh !  he  lies  by  the  willow  tree. 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow  tree. 

Hark!  the  raven  flaps  his  wing, 
In  the  brier' d  dell  below; 

Hark!  the  death-owl  loud  doth  sing, 
To  the  nightmares  as  they  go* 


POEMS  333 

My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow  tree. 

See !  the  white  moon  shines  on  high ; 

Whiter  is  my  true-love's  shroud; 
Whiter  than  the  morning  sky, 
Whiter  than  the  evening  cloud. 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow  tree. 

Here,  upon  my  true-love's  grave, 
Shall  the  garish  flowers  be  laid, 
Nor  one  holy  saint  to  save 
All  the  sorrows  of  a  maid. 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow  tree. 

With  my  hands  I'll  bind  the  briers. 

Round  his  holy  cors  to  gre ; 
Elfin-fairy,  light  your  fires, 
Here  my  body  still  shall  be. 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow  tree. 

Come  with  acorn  cup  and  thorn, 

Drain  my  heart's  blood  all  away; 
Life  and  all  its  good  I  scorn, 
Dance  by  night,  or  feast  by  day. 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow  tree. 

Water-witches,  crowned  with  reytes, 

Bear  me  to  your  deadly  tide. 
I  die — I  come — my  true-love  waits. 

Thus  the  damsel  spake,  and  died. 


BIOGRAPHIA    LITERARIA 


BY 


S.  T.  COLERIDGE 


335 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


The  hill  of  profitable  fame  was  no  less  easy  to  climb  for  the  writer 
of  "The  Ancient  Mariner"  than  for  Chatterton.  Coleridge's  mental 
and  bodily  temper  fatally  handicapped  him  in  what  it  would  be  ludi- 
crous to  call  the  race  for  fame  or  even  for  a  livelihood.  He  could  soar 
higher  and  swifter  than  most  voyagers  through  the  upper  air,  but  for 
treading  the  hard  earth  he  was  unfit.  He  was  the  youngest  child  of 
a  country  clergyman,  born  in  1772,  went  to  the  Blue  Coat  school  with 
Charles  Lamb,  gained  a  Cambridge  medal  for  a  Greek  ode,  and  then 
espoused  the  cause  of  radicalism  in  religious  and  political  thought,  and 
so  flung  aside  the  ladder  by  which  his  intellectual  inferiors  rose  to  pop- 
ularity and  ease. 

A  first  spell  of  hardship  in  London  impelled  him  to  enlist  as  a  Light 
Dragoon.  Before  this  he  had  wanted  to  be  a  shoemaker's  apprentice. 
His  friends  bought  his  discharge  in  1794.  Then  he  launched  a  juve- 
nile poetry  book  on  subscription,  and  with  the  equally  visionary 
Southey  he  started,  on  paper,  a  grand  revolutionary  movement.  Its 
apostles  agreed  to  shake  the  dust  off  their  feet  and  fly  from  the  cruel 
Old  World  to  the  New,  and  found  an  ideal  community  on  the  banks  of 
the  Susquehanna,  Pa.,  because  so  beautiful  a  name  was  the  sure 
pledge  of  an  earthly  paradise.  They  could  not  raise  their  passage 
money,  which  accounts  for  all  the  ills  our  generation  is  fated  to  endure. 

Pamphleteering  and  poetry  were  the  next  sails  he  put  forth  to  catch 
a  favoring  breeze.  Preaching  in  obscure  Unitarian  pulpits  afforded  a 
precarious  bread-and-butter  sustenance  for  a  time.  Then  the  "pa- 
tron "  condescendingly  proffered  his  humiliating  but  acceptable  charity, 
and  Coleridge  took  to  opium  as  a  palliative.  Travel  in  Germany  with 
Wordsworth  brought  him  welcome  work  in  translating  its  poetry. 
Lecturing  and  writing,  and  more  than  either — rhapsodical  talk — filled 
his  latter  life.  He  had  domestic  as  well  as  all  other  kinds  of  trouble, 
and  the  opium  dose  increased  to  a  pint  every  day.  Dr.  Gilman  gave 
him  sanctuary  in  his  house  for  the  last  nineteen  years  of  life.  The 
poet-philosopher  there  found  rest  and  peace.  He  died  there  in  1834. 
His  Unitarian  and  extreme  radical  views  gave  place  to  more  orthodox 
assents.  Spite  of  all  his  frailties  Coleridge  was  a  giant  among  pigmy 
versifiers  and  shallow  retailers  of  thought.  He  was  a  true  seer  and  an 
inspired  revealer  and  expounder  of  unsuspected  beauties  in  truth. 
Some  of  his  writings  transcend  the  finest  of  their  kind  in  literature. 


336 


BIOGRAPHIA  LITERARIA 


Supposed   irritability  of   men  of  genius — Brought  to  the 

test  of  facts — causes  and  occasions  of  the  charge 

Its  injustice. 

I  have  often  thought,  that  it  would  be  neither  uninstruc- 
tive  nor  unamusing  to  analyze,  and  bring  forward  into  dis- 
tinct consciousness,  that  complex  feeling,  with  which  read- 
ers in  general  take  part  against  the  author,  in  favor  of  the 
critic ;  and  the  readiness  with  which  they  apply  to  all  poets 
the  old  sarcasm  of  Horace  upon  the  scribblers  of  his  time: 
«  Genus  irritabile  vatum.n  A  debility  and  dimness  of  the 
imaginative  power,  and  a  consequent  necessity  of  reliance 
on  the  immediate  impressions  of  the  senses,  do,  we  well 
know,  render  the  mind  liable  to  superstition  and  fanaticism. 
Having  a  deficient  portion  of  internal  and  proper  warmth, 
minds  of  this  class  seek  in  the  crowd  circum  fana  for  a 
warmth  in  common,  which  they  do  not  possess  singly.  Cold 
and  phlegmatic  in  their  own  nature,  like  damp  hay,  they 
heat  and  inflame  by  co-acervation ;  or  like  bees  they  become 
restless  and  irritable  through  the  increased  temperature  of 
collected  multitudes.  Hence  the  German  word  for  fanati- 
cism (such  at  least  was  its  original  import)  is  derived  from 
the  swarming  of  bees,  namely,  schwarmen,  schwarmerey. 
The  passion  being  in  an  inverse  proportion  to  the  insight, 
that  the  more  vivid,  as  this  the  less  distinct ;  anger  is  the 
inevitable  consequence.  The  absence  of  all  foundation 
within  their  own  minds  for  that  which  they  yet  believe 
both  true  and  indispensable  for  their  safety  and  happiness, 
cannot  but  produce  an  uneasy  state  of  feeling,  an  involun- 
tary sense  of  fear  from  which  nature  has  no  means  of  res- 
cuing herself  but  by  anger.  Experience  informs  us  that 
the  first  defence  of  weak  minds  is  to  recriminate. 
22  337 


338  COLERIDGE 

"There's  no  philosopher  but  sees, 
That  rage  and  fear  are  one  disease, 
Though  that  may  burn,  and  this  may  freeze. 
They're  both  alike  the  ague." 

Mad  Ox. 

But  where  the  ideas  are  vivid,  and  there  exists  an  endless 
power  of  combining  and  modifying  them,  the  feelings  and 
affections  blend  more  easily  and  intimately  with  these  ideal 
creations  than  with  the  objects  of  the  senses ;  the  mind  is 
affected  by  thoughts  rather  than  by  things ;  and  only  then 
feels  the  requisite  interest  even  for  the  most  important 
events,  and  accidents,  when  by  means  of  meditation  they 
have  passed  into  thoughts.  The  sanity  of  the  mind  is  be- 
tween superstition  with  fanaticism  on  the  one  hand,  and 
enthusiasm  with  indifference  and  a  diseased  slowness  to 
action  on  the  other.  For  the  conceptions  of  the  mind  may 
be  so  vivid  and  adequate,  as  to  preclude  that  impulse  to  the 
realizing  of  them,  which  is  strongest  and  most  restless  in 
those  who  possess  more  than  mere  talent  (or  the  faculty  of 
appropriating  and  applying  the  knowledge  of  others)  yet 
still  want  something  of  the  creative,  and  self-sufficing  power 
of  absolute  genius.  For  this  reason,  therefore,  they  are 
men  of  commanding  genius.  While  the  former  rest  content 
between  thought  and  reality,  as  it  were  in  an  intermundium 
of  which  their  own  living  spirit  supplies  the  substance,  and 
their  imagination  the  ever-varying  form;  the  latter  must 
impress  their  preconceptions  on  the  world  without,  in  order 
to  present  them  back  to  their  own  view  with  the  satisfying 
degree  of  clearness,  distinctness,  and  individuality.  These 
in  tranquil  times  are  formed  to  exhibit  a  perfect  poem  in 
palace  or  temple  or  landscape-garden;  or  a  tale  of  romance 
in  canals  that  join  sea  with  sea,  or  in  walls  of  rock,  which 
shouldering  back  the  billows,  imitate  the  power,  and  supply 
the  benevolence  of  nature  to  sheltered  navies ;  or  in  aque- 
ducts that,  arching  the  wide  vale  from  mountain  to  moun- 
tain, give  a  Palmyra  to  the  desert.  But  alas!  in  times  of 
tumult  they  are  the  men  destined  to  come  forth  as  the  shap- 
ing spirit  of  Ruin,  to  destroy  the  wisdom  of  ages  in  order 
to  substitute  the  fancies  of  a  day,  and  to  change  kings  and 
kingdoms,  as  the  wind  shifts  and  shapes  the  clouds.     The 


BIOGRAPHIA   LITERARIA  339 

records  of  biography  seem  to  confirm  this  theory.  The 
men  of  the  greatest  genius,  as  far  as  we  can  judge  from 
their  own  works  or  from  the  accounts  of  their  contempo- 
raries, appear  to  have  been  of  calm  and  tranquil  temper,  in 
all  that  related  to  themselves.  In  the  inward  assurance  of 
permanent  fame,  they  seem  to  have  been  either  indifferent 
or  resigned,  with  regard  to  immediate  reputation.  Through 
all  the  works  of  Chaucer  there  reigns  a  cheerfulness,  a  manly 
hilarity,  which  makes  it  almost  impossible  to  doubt  a  corre- 
spondent habit  of  feeling  in  the  author  himself.  Shake- 
speare's evenness  and  sweetness  of  temper  were  almost 
proverbial  in  his  own  age.  That  this  did  not  arise  from 
ignorance  of  his  own  comparative  greatness,  we  have  abun- 
dant proof  in  his  Sonnets,  which  could  scarcely  have  been 
known  to  Pope,  when  he  asserted,  that  our  great  bard  «  grew 
immortal  in  his  own  despite.))  Speaking  of  one  whom  he 
had  celebrated,  and  contrasting  the  duration  of  his  works 
with  that  of  his  personal  existence,  Shakespeare  adds : — 

"Your  name  from  hence  immortal  life  shall  have, 

Though  I,  once  gone,  to  all  the  world  must  die  ; 

The  earth  can  yield  me  but  a  common  grave, 

When  you  entombed  in  men's  eyes  shall  lie. 

Your  monument  shall  be  my  gentle  verse, 

Which  eyes  not  yet  created  shall  o'er-read  ; 

And  tongues  to  be  your  being  shall  rehearse. 

When  all  the  breathers  of  this  world  are  dead : 
You  still  shall  live,  such  virtue  hath  my  pen, 
Where  breath  most  breathes,  e'en  in  the  mouths  of  men." 

Sonnet  8ist. 

I  have  taken  the  first  that  occurred;  but  Shakespeare's 
readiness  to  praise  his  rivals,  ore  pleno,  and  the  confidence 
of  his  own  equality  with  those  whom  he  deemed  most  worthy 
of  his  praise,  are  alike  manifested  in  the  86th  Sonnet. 

"  Was  it  the  proud  full  sail  of  his  great  verse 
Bound  for  the  prize  of  all-too-precious  you, 
That  did  my  ripe  thoughts  in  my  brain  inhearse, 
Making  their  tomb,  the  womb  wherein  they  grew? 
Was  it  his  spirit,  by  spirits  taught  to  write 
Above  a  mortal  pitch,  that  struck  me  dead? 
No,  neither  he,  nor  his  compeers  by  night 
Giving  him  aid,  my  verse  astonished. 


340  COLERIDGE 

He,  nor  that  affable  familiar  ghost, 

Which  nightly  gulls  him  with  intelligence, 

As  victors  of  my  silence  cannot  boast; 

I  was  not  sick  of  any  fear  from  thence  ! 

But  when  your  countenance  filled  up  his  line, 
Then  lacked  I  matter;  that  enfeebled  mine." 

In  Spenser,  indeed,  we  trace  a  mind  constitutionally  ten- 
der, delicate,  and,  in  comparison  with  his  three  great  com- 
peers, I  had  almost  said,  effeminate;  and  this  additionally- 
saddened  by  the  unjust  persecution  of  Burleigh,  and  the 
severe  calamities,  which  overwhelmed  his  latter  days.  These 
causes  have  diffused  over  all  his  compositions  «  a  melancholy 
grace,»  and  have  drawn  forth  occasional  strains,  the  more 
pathetic  from  their  gentleness.  But  nowhere  do  we  find 
the  least  trace  of  irritability,  and  still  less  of  quarrelsome 
or  affected  contempt  of  his  censurers. 

The  same  calmness,  and  even  greater  self-possession, 
may  be  affirmed  of  Milton,  as  far  as  his  poems  and  poetic 
character  are  concerned.  He  reserved  his  anger  for  the 
enemies  of  religion,  freedom,  and  his  country.  My  mind  is 
not  capable  of  forming  a  more  august  conception  than  arises 
from  the  contemplation  of  this  great  man  in  his  latter  days : 
— poor,  sick,  old,  blind,  slandered,  persecuted: 

"Darkness  before,  and  danger's  voice  behind," 

in  an  age  in  which  he  was  as  little  understood  by  the  party 
for  whom,  as  by  that  against  whom,  he  had  contended,  and 
among  men  before  whom  he  strode  so  far  as  to  dwarf  him- 
self by  the  distance ;  yet  still  listening  to  the  music  of  his 
own  thoughts ;  or,  if  additionally  cheered,  yet  cheered  only 
by  the  prophetic  faith  of  two  or  three  solitary  individuals, 

he  did  nevertheless 

"argue  not 
Against  Heaven's  hand  or  will,  nor  bate  a  jot 
Of  heart  or  hope  ;  but  still  bore  up  and  steer' d 
Right  onward." 

From  others  only  do  we  derive  our  knowledge  that  Milton, 
in  his  latter  day,  had  his  scorners  and  detractors ;  and  even 
in  his  day  of  youth  and  hope,  that  he  had  enemies  would 
have  been  unknown  to  us,  had  they  not  been  likewise  the 
enemies  of  his  country. 


BIOGRAPHIA   LITERARIA  341 

I  am  well  aware  that  in  advanced  stages  of  literature, 
when  there  exist  many  and  excellent  models,  a  high  degree 
of  talent,  combined  with  taste  and  judgment,  and  employed 
in  works  of  imagination,  will  acquire  for  a  man  the  name 
of  a  great  genius;  though  even  that  analogon  of  genius 
which,  in  certain  states  of  society,  may  even  render  his 
writings  more  popular  than  the  absolute  reality  could  have 
done,  would  be  sought  for  in  vain  in  the  mind  and  temper 
of  the  author  himself.  Yet  even  in  instances  of  this  kind, 
a  close  examination  will  often  detect  that  the  irritability 
which  has  been  attributed  to  the  author's  genius  as  its 
cause,  did  really  originate  in  an  ill  conformation  of  body, 
obtuse  pain,  or  constitutional  defect  of  pleasurable  sensa- 
tion. What  is  charged  to  the  author  belongs  to  the  man, 
who  would  probably  have  been  still  more  impatient  but  for 
the  humanizing  influences  of  the  very  pursuit  which  yet 
bears  the  blame  of  his  irritability. 

How  then  are  we  to  explain  the  easy  credence  generally 
given  to  this  charge,  if  the  charge  itself  be  not,  as  we  have 
endeavored  to  show,  supported  by  experience?  This  seems 
to  me  of  no  very  difficult  solution.  In  whatever  country 
literature  is  widely  diffused,  there  will  be  many  who  mis- 
take an  intense  desire  to  possess  the  reputation  of  poetic 
genius  for  the  actual  powers  and  original  tendencies  which 
constitute  it.  But  men,  whose  dearest  wishes  are  fixed  on 
objects  wholly  out  of  their  own  power,  become  in  all  cases 
more  or  less  impatient  and  prone  to  anger.  Besides,  though 
it  may  be  paradoxical  to  assert,  that  a  man  can  know  one 
thing  and  believe  the  opposite ;  yet,  assuredly,  a  vain  per- 
son may  have  so  habitually  indulged  the  wish,  and  perse- 
vered in  the  attempt  to  appear  what  he  is  not,  as  to  become 
himself  one  of  his  own  proselytes.  Still,  as  this  counterfeit 
and  artificial  persuasion  must  differ  even  in  the  person's 
own  feelings,  from  a  real  sense  of  inward  power,  what  can 
be  more  natural  than  that  this  difference  should  betray  itself 
in  suspicious  and  jealous  irritability?  Even  as  the  flowery 
sod  which  covers  a  hollow  may  be  often  detected  by  its 
shaking  and  trembling. 

But  alas!  the  multitude  of  books,  and  the  general  diffu- 
sion of  literature,  have  produced  other  and  more  lamentable 


342  COLERIDGE 

effects  in  the  world  of  letters,  and  such  as  are  abundant  to 
explain,  though  by  no  means  to  justify,  the  contempt  with 
which  the  best-grounded  complaints  of  injured  genius  are 
rejected  as  frivolous,  or  entertained  as  matter  of  merriment. 
In  the  days  of  Chaucer  and  Gower,  our  language  might 
(with  due  allowance  for  the  imperfections  of  a  simile)  be 
compared  to  a  wilderness  of  vocal  reeds,  from  which  the 
favorites  only  of  Pan  or  Apollo  could  construct  even  the 
rude  Syrinx;  and  from  this  the  constructors  alone  could 
elicit  strains  of  music.  But  now,  partly  by  the  labors  of 
successive  poets,  and  in  part  by  the  more  artificial  state  of 
society  and  social  intercourse,  language,  mechanized  as  it 
were  into  a  barrel-organ,  supplies  at  once  both  instrument 
and  tune.  Thus,  even  the  deaf  may  play  so  as  to  delight 
the  many.  Sometimes  (for  it  is  with  similes,  as  it  is  with 
jests  at  a  wine-table,  one  is  sure  to  suggest  another)  I  have 
attempted  to  illustrate  the  present  state  of  our  language, 
in  its  relation  to  literature,  by  a  press-room  of  larger 
and  smaller  stereotype  pieces,  which,  in  the  present  Anglo- 
Gallican  fashion  of  unconnected  epigrammatic  periods,  it 
requires  but  an  ordinary  portion  of  ingenuity  to  vary  in- 
definitely, and  yet  still  produce  something,  which,  if  not 
sense,  will  be  so  like  it,  as  to  do  as  well.  Perhaps  better; 
for  it  spares  the  reader  the  trouble  of  thinking ;  prevents 
vacancy,  while  it  indulges  indolence ;  and  secures  the  mem- 
ory from  all  danger  of  an  intellectual  plethora.  Hence,  of 
all  trades,  literature  at  present  demands  the  least  talent  or 
information ;  and,  of  all  modes  of  literature,  the  manufac- 
turing of  poems.  The  difference  indeed  between  these  and 
the  works  of  genius  is  not  less  than  between  an  egg  and  an 
egg-shell;  yet,  at  a  distance,  they  both  look  alike.  Now, 
it  is  no  less  remarkable  than  true,  with  how  little  examina- 
tion works  of  polite  literature  are  commonly  perused,  not 
only  by  the  mass  of  readers,  but  by  men  of  first-rate  ability, 
till  some  accident  or  chance  discussion  have  roused  their 
attention,  and  put  them  on  their  guard.  And  hence  indi- 
viduals below  mediocrity,  not  less  in  natural  power  than  in 
acquired  knowledge ;  nay,  bunglers  that  have  failed  in  the 
lowest  mechanical  crafts,  and  whose  presumption  is  in  due 
proportion  to  their  want  of  sense  and  sensibility ;  men  who, 


BIOGRAPHIA  LITERARIA  343 

being  first  scribblers  from  idleness  and  ignorance,  next  be- 
come libellers  from  envy  and  malevolence,  have  been  able 
to  drive  a  successful  trade  in  the  employment  of  the  book- 
sellers; nay,  have  raised  themselves  into  temporary  name 
and  reputation  with  the  public  at  large  by  that  most  power- 
ful of  all  adulation,  the  appeal  to  the  bad  and  malignant 
passions  of  mankind.  But  as  it  is  the  nature  of  scorn,  envy, 
and  all  malignant  propensities,  to  require  a  quick  change  of 
objects,  such  writers  are  sure,  sooner  or  later,  to  awake 
from  their  dream  of  vanity  to  disappointment  and  neglect 
with  embittered  and  envenomed  feelings.  Even  during 
their  short-lived  success,  sensible  in  spite  of  themselves  on 
what  a  shifting  foundation  it  rested,  they  resent  the  mere 
refusal  of  praise  as  a  robbery,  and  at  the  justest  censures, 
kindle  at  once  into  violent  and  undisciplined  abuse ;  till  the 
acute  disease,  changing  into  chronical,  the  more  deadly  as 
the  less  violent,  they  become  the  fit  instruments  of  literary 
detraction  and  moral  slander.  They  are  then  no  longer  to 
be  questioned  without  exposing  the  complainant  to  ridi- 
cule, because,  forsooth,  they  are  anonymous  critics,  and  au- 
thorized as  «  synodical  individuals »  to  speak  of  themselves 
as  plurali  majestatico  !  As  if  literature  formed  a  caste,  like 
that  of  the  paras  in  Hindostan,  who,  however  maltreated, 
must  not  dare  to  deem  themselves  wronged!  As  if  that 
which,  in  all  other  cases,  adds  a  deeper  dye  to  slander,  the 
circumstance  of  its  being  anonymous,  here  acted  only  to 
make  the  slanderer  inviolable!  Thus,  in  part,  from  the 
accidental  tempers  of  individuals  (men  of  undoubted  talent, 
but  not  men  of  genius),  tempers  rendered  yet  more  irritable 
by  their  desire  to  appear  men  of  genius;  but  still  more  ef- 
fectively by  the  excesses  of  the  mere  counterfeits  both  of 
talent  and  genius ;  the  number,  too,  being  so  incomparably 
greater  of  those  who  are  thought  to  be,  than  those  who 
really  are,  men  of  real  genius ;  and  in  part  from  the  natural, 
but  not  therefore  the  less  partial  and  unjust  distinction, 
made  by  the  public  itself  between  literary  and  all  other 
property,  I  believe  the  prejudice  to  have  arisen,  which  con- 
siders an  unusual  irascibility  concerning  the  reception  of  its 
products  as  characteristic  of  genius.  It  might  correct  the 
moral  feelings  of  a  numerous  class  of  readers  to  suppose  a 


344  COLERIDGE 

review  set  on  foot,  the  object  of  which  was  to  criticise  all 
the  chief  works  presented  to  the  public  by  our  ribbon- 
weavers,  calico-printers,  cabinet-makers,  and  china-manu- 
facturers ;  a  review  conducted  in  the  same  spirit,  and  which 
should  take  the  same  freedom  with  personal  character,  as 
our  literary  journals.  They  would  scarcely,  I  think,  deny 
their  belief,  not  only  that  the  ((genus  irritabileii  would  be 
found  to  include  many  other  species  besides  that  of  bards ; 
but  that  the  irritability  of  trade  would  soon  reduce  the 
resentments  of  poets  into  mere  shadow-fights  in  the  com- 
parison. Or  is  wealth  the  only  rational  object  of  human 
interest?  Or,  even  if  this  were  admitted,  has  the  poet  no 
property  in  his  works?  Or  is  it  a  rare  or  culpable  case,  that 
he  who  serves  at  the  altar  of  the  Muses  should  be  compelled 
to  derive  his  maintenance  from  the  altar,  when,  too,  he  has 
perhaps  deliberately  abandoned  the  fairest  prospects  of  rank 
and  opulence  in  order  to  devote  himself,  an  entire  and  un- 
distracted  man,  to  the  instruction  or  refinement  of  his  fellow- 
citizens?  Or,  should  we  pass  by  all  higher  objects  and 
motives,  all  disinterested  benevolence,  and  even  that  ambi- 
tion of  lasting  praise  which  is  at  once  the  crutch  and  orna- 
ment, which  at  once  supports  and  betrays  the  infirmity  of 
human  virtue ;  is  the  character  and  property  of  the  individ- 
ual who  labors  for  our  intellectual  pleasures  less  entitled  to 
a  share  of  our  fellow-feeling  than  that  of  the  wine-merchant 
or  milliner?  Sensibility,  indeed,  both  quick  and  deep,  is  not 
only  a  characteristic  feature,  but  may  be  deemed  a  compo- 
nent part,  of  genius.  But  it  is  no  less  an  essential  mark  of 
true  genius,  that  its  sensibility  is  excited  by  any  other  cause 
more  powerfully  than  by  its  own  personal  interests ;  for  this 
plain  reason,  that  the  man  of  genius  lives  most  in  the  ideal 
world,  in  which  the  present  is  still  constituted  by  the  fu- 
ture or  the  past;  and  because  his  feelings  have  been 
habitually  associated  with  thoughts  and  images,  to  the 
number,  clearness,  and  vivacity  of  which,  the  sensation  of 
self  is  always  in  an  inverse  proportion.  And  yet,  should 
he  perchance  have  occasion  to  repel  some  false  charge,  or 
to  rectify  some  erroneous  censure,  nothing  is  more  com- 
mon than  for  the  many  to  mistake  the  general  liveliness 
of  his  manner  and  language,  whatever  is  the  subject,  for 


BIOGRAPHIA   LITERARIA  345 

the  effects  of  peculiar  irritation  from  its  accidental  relation 
to  himself. 

For  myself,  if  from  my  own  feelings,  or  from  the  less  sus- 
picions test  of  the  observations  of  others,  I  had  been  made 
aware  of  any  literary  testiness  or  jealousy ;  I  trust  that  I 
should  have  been,  however,  neither  silly  or  arrogant  enough 
to  have  burthened  the  imperfection  on  genius.  But  an  ex- 
perience (and  I  should  not  need  documents  in  abundance  to 
prove  my  words  if  I  added)  a  tried  experience  of  twenty 
years  has  taught  me  that  the  original  sin  of  my  character 
consists  in  a  careless  indifference  to  public  opinion,  and  to 
the  attacks  of  those  who  influence  it;  that  praise  and  ad- 
miration have  become  yearly  less  and  less  desirable,  except 
as  marks  of  sympathy ;  nay,  that  it  is  difficult  and  distress- 
ing to  me  to  think  with  any  interest,  even  about  the  sale 
and  profit  of  my  works,  important,  as  in  my  present  circum- 
stances, such  considerations  must  needs  be.  Yet  it  never 
occurred  to  me  to  believe  or  fancy,  that  the  quantum  of 
intellectual  power  bestowed  on  me  by  nature  or  education 
was  in  any  way  connected  with  this  habit  of  my  feelings,  or 
that  it  needed  any  other  parents  or  fosterers  than  constitu- 
tional indolence,  aggravated  into  languor  by  ill -health ;  the 
accumulating  embarrassments  of  procrastination;  the  men- 
tal cowardice,  which  is  the  inseparable  companion  of  pro- 
crastination, and  which  makes  us  anxious  to  think  and  con- 
verse on  anything  rather  than  on  what  concerns  ourselves : 
in  fine,  all  those  close  vexations,  whether  chargeable  on  my 
faults  or  my  fortunes,  which  leave  me  but  little  grief  to 
spare  for  evils  comparatively  distant  and  alien. 

Indignation  at  literary  wrongs  I  leave  to  men  born  under 
happier  stars.  I  cannot  afford  it.  But  so  far  from  con- 
demning those  who  can,  I  deem  it  a  writer's  duty,  and  think 
it  creditable  to  his  heart,  to  feel  and  express  a  resentment 
proportioned  to  the  grossness  of  the  provocation,  and  the 
importance  of  the  object.  There  is  no  profession  on  earth 
which  requires  an  attention  so  early,  so  long,  or  so  uninter- 
mitting,  as  that  of  poetry ;  and,  indeed,  as  that  of  literary 
composition  in  general,  if  it  be  such  as  at  all  satisfies  the 
demands  both  of  taste  and  of  sound  logic.  How  difficult 
and  delicate  a  task  even  the  mere  mechanism  of  verse  is, 


346  COLERIDGE 

may  be  conjectured  from  the  failure  of  those  who  have 
attempted  poetry  late  in  life.  Where,  then,  a  man  has, 
from  his  earliest  youth,  devoted  his  whole  being  to  an  ob- 
ject, which  by  the  admission  of  all  civilized  nations,  in  all 
ages,  is  honorable  as  a  pursuit  and  glorious  as  an  attain- 
ment ;  what  of  all  that  relates  to  himself  and  his  family,  if 
only  we  except  his  moral  character,  can  have  fairer  claims 
to  his  protection,  or  more  authorize  acts  of  self-defence, 
than  the  elaborate  products  of  his  intellect,  and  intellectual 
industry?  Prudence  itself  would  command  us  to  show,  even 
if  defect  or  diversion  of  natural  sensibility  had  prevented 
us  from  feeling,  a  due  interest  and  qualified  anxiety  for  the 
offspring  and  representatives  of  our  nobler  being.  I  know 
it,  alas !  by  woful  experience !  I  have  laid  too  many  eggs 
in  the  hot  sands  of  this  wilderness,  the  world,  with  ostrich 
carelessness  and  ostrich  oblivion.  The  greater  part,  indeed, 
have  been  trod  under  foot,  and  are  forgotten ;  but  yet  no 
small  number  have  crept  forth  into  life,  some  to  furnish 
feathers  for  the  caps  of  others,  and  still  more  to  plume  the 
shafts  in  the  quivers  of  my  enemies,  of  them  that  unpro- 
voked have  lain  in  wait  against  my  soul. 

«  Sic  vos,  non  vobis  mellificatis^  apes  !  » 

The  author's  obligations  to  critics,  and  the  probable  oc- 
casion— Principles  of  modern  criticism — Mr.  South- 
ey's  works  and  character. 

To  anonymous  critics  in  reviews,  magazines,  and  news- 
journals  of  various  name  and  rank,  and  to  satirists  with  or 
without  a  name,  in  verse  or  prose,  or  in  verse-text  aided  by 
prose-comment,  I  do  seriously  believe  and  profess,  that  I 
owe  full  two-thirds  of  whatever  reputation  and  publicity 
I  happen  to  possess.  For  when  the  name  of  an  individual 
has  occurred  so  frequently,  in  so  many  works,  for  so  great 
a  length  of  time,  the  readers  of  these  works  (which  with  a 
shelf  or  two  of  Beauties,  Elegant  Extracts,  and  Anas,  form 
nine-tenths  of  the  reading  of  the  reading  public)  cannot  but 
be  familiar  with  the  name,  without  distinctly  remembering 
whether  it  was  introduced  for  eulogy  or  for  censure.  And 
this  becomes  the  more  likely,  if  (as  I  believe)  the  habit  of 


BIOGRAPHIA  LITERARIA  347 

perusing  periodical  works  may  be  properly  added  to  Aver- 
roes'  catalogue  of  Anti-mnemonics,  or  weakeners  of  the 
memory.  But  where  this  has  not  been  the  case,  yet  the 
reader  will  be  apt  to  suspect  that  there  must  be  something 
more  than  usually  strong  and  extensive  in  a  reputation,  that 
could  either  require  or  stand  so  merciless  and  long-continued 
a  cannonading.  Without  any  feeling  of  anger  therefore  (for 
which,  indeed,  on  my  own  account,  I  have  no  pretext)  I  may 
yet  be  allowed  to  express  some  degree  of  surprise,  that  after 
having  run  the  critical  gantlet  for  a  certain  class  of  faults 
which  I  had,  nothing  having  come  before  the  judgment-seat 
in  the  interim,  I  should,  year  after  year,  quarter  after  quar- 
ter, month  after  month  (not  to  mention  sundry  petty  peri- 
odicals of  still  quicker  revolution,  « or  weekly  or  diurnal ») 
have  been  for  at  least  seventeen  years  consecutively,  dragged 
forth  by  them  into  the  foremost  ranks  of  the  proscribed, 
and  forced  to  abide  the  brunt  of  abuse,  for  faults  directly 
opposite,  and  which  I  certainly  had  not.  How  shall  I  ex- 
plain this? 

Whatever  may  have  been  the  case  with  others,  I  certainly 
cannot  attribute  this  persecution  to  personal  dislike,  or  to 
envy,  or  to  feelings  of  vindictive  animosity.  Not  to  the 
former,  for,  with  the  exception  of  a  very  few  who  are  my 
intimate  friends,  and  were  so  before  they  were  known  as 
authors,  I  have  had  little  other  acquaintance  with  literary 
characters,  than  what  may  be  implied  in  an  accidental  in- 
troduction, or  casual  meeting  in  a  mixed  company.  And, 
as  far  as  words  and  looks  can  be  trusted,  I  must  believe 
that,  even  in  these  instances,  I  had  excited  no  unfriendly 
disposition.  Neither  by  letter,  or  in  conversation,  have  I 
ever  had  dispute  or  controversy  beyond  the  common  social 
interchange  of  opinions.  Nay,  where  I  had  reason  to  sup- 
pose my  convictions  fundamentally  different,  it  has  been 
my  habit,  and  I  may  add,  the  impulse  of  my  nature,  to  as- 
sign the  grounds  of  my  belief,  rather  than  the  belief  itself; 
and  not  to  express  dissent  till  I  could  establish  some  points 
of  complete  sympathy,  some  grounds  common  to  both  sides, 
from  which  to  commence  its  explanation. 

Still  less  can  I  place  these  attacks  to  the  charge  of  envy. 
The  few  pages  which  I  have  published  are  of  too  distant 


348  COLERIDGE 

a  date,  and  the  extent  of  their  sale  a  proof  too  conclusive 
against  their  having  been  popular  at  any  time,  to  render 
probable,  I  had  almost  said  possible,  the  excitement  of  envy- 
on  their  account ;  and  the  man  who  should  envy  me  on  any 
other,  verily  he  must  be  envy -mad ! 

Lastly,  with  as  little  semblance  of  reason,  could  I  suspect 
any  animosity  towards  me  from  vindictive  feelings  as  the 
cause.  I  have  before  said,  that  my  acquaintance  with  lit- 
erary men  has  been  limited  and  distant,  and  that  I  have  had 
neither  dispute  nor  controversy.  From  my  first  entrance 
into  life,  I  have,  with  few  and  short  intervals,  lived  either 
abroad  or  in  retirement.  My  different  essays  on  subjects  of 
national  interest,  published  at  different  times,  first  in  the 
Morning  Post  and  then  in  the  Courier,  with  my  courses  of 
lectures  on  the  principles  of  criticism  as  applied  to  Shake- 
speare and  Milton,  constitute  my  whole  publicity ;  the  only 
occasions  on  which  I  could  offend  any  member  of  the  re- 
public of  letters.  With  one  solitary  exception,  in  which 
my  words  were  first  misstated,  and  then  wantonly  applied 
to  an  individual,  I  could  never  learn  that  I  had  excited  the 
displeasure  of  any  among  my  literary  contemporaries.  Hav- 
ing announced  my  intention  to  give  a  course  of  lectures  on 
the  characteristic  merits  and  defects  of  English  poetry  in 
its  different  eras;  first,  from  Chaucer  to  Milton;  second, 
from  Dryden  inclusive  to  Thomson ;  and  third,  from  Cow- 
per  to  the  present  day;  I  changed  my  plan,  and  confined 
my  disquisition  to  the  two  former  eras,  that  I  might  furnish 
no  possible  pretext  for  the  unthinking  to  misconstrue,  or  the 
malignant  to  misapply  my  words,  and  having  stamped  their 
own  meaning  on  them,  to  pass  them  as  current  coin  in  the 
marts  of  garrulity  or  detraction. 

Praises  of  the  unworthy  are  felt  by  ardent  minds  as  rob- 
beries of  the  deserving ;  and  it  is  too  true,  and  too  frequent, 
that  Bacon,  Harrington,  Machiavel,  and  Spinoza  are  not 
read,  because  Hume,  Condillac,  and  Voltaire  are.  But  in 
promiscuous  company  no  prudent  man  will  oppugn  the 
merits  of  a  contemporary  in  his  own  supposed  department ; 
contenting  himself  with  praising  in  his  turn  those  whom  he 
deem  excellent.  If  I  should  ever  deem  it  my  duty  at  all 
to  oppose  the  pretensions  of  individuals,   I  would  oppose 


BIOGRAPHIA   LITERARIA  349 

them  in  books  which  could  be  weighed  and  answered,  in 
which  I  could  evolve  the  whole  of  my  reasons  and  feelings, 
with  their  requisite  limits  and  modifications ;  not  in  irrecov- 
erable conversation,  where,  however  strong  the  reasons 
might  be,  the  feelings  that  prompted  them  would  assuredly 
be  attributed  by  some  one  or  other  to  envy  and  discontent. 
Besides,  I  well  know,  and  I  trust  have  acted  on  that  knowl- 
edge, that  it  must  be  the  ignorant  and  injudicious  who  extol 
the  unworthy ;  and  the  eulogies  of  critics  without  taste  or 
judgment  are  the  natural  reward  of  authors  without  feeling 
or  genius.     Sint  unicuique  sua  prcemia. 

How  then,  dismissing,  as  I  do,  these  three  causes,  am  I 
to  account  for  attacks,  the  long  continuance  and  inveteracy 
of  which  it  would  require  all  three  to  explain.  The  solution 
may  seem  to  have  been  given,  or  at  least  suggested,  in  a 
note  to  a  preceding  page.  7"  was  in  habits  of  intimacy  with 
Mr.  Wordsworth  and  Mr.  Southey /  This,  however,  trans- 
fers rather  than  removes  the  difficulty.  Be  it,  that  by  an 
unconscionable  extension  of  the  old  adage,  noscitur  a  socio, 
my  literary  friends  are  never  under  the  water-fall  of  criti- 
cism, but  I  must  be  wet  through  with  the  spray;  yet  how 
came  the  torrent  to  descend  upon  them  ? 

First,  then,  with  regard  to  Mr.  Southey.  I  well  remem- 
ber the  general  reception  of  his  earlier  publications:  viz., 
the  poems  published  with  Mr.  Lovell  under  the  names  of 
Moschus  and  Bion  (1795),  the  two  volumes  of  poems  under 
his  own  name  (1797),  and  the  Joan  of  Arc  (1796).  The  cen- 
sures of  the  critics  by  profession  are  extant,  and  may  be 
easily  referred  to: — careless  lines,  inequality  in  the  merit 
of  the  different  poems,  and  (in  the  lighter  works)  a  predi- 
lection for  the  strange  and  whimsical ;  in  short,  such  faults 
as  might  have  been  anticipated  in  a  young  and  rapid  writer, 
were  indeed  sufficiently  enforced.  Nor  was  there  at  that 
time  wanting  a  party  spirit  to  aggravate  the  defects  of  a 
poet,  who,  with  all  the  courage  of  uncorrupted  youth,  had 
avowed  his  zeal  for  a  cause  which  he  deemed  that  of  liberty, 
and  his  abhorrence  of  oppression  by  whatever  name  conse- 
crated. But  it  was  as  little  objected  by  others,  as  dreamt 
of  by  the  poet  himself,  that  he  preferred  careless  and  pro- 
saic lines  on  rule  and  of  forethought,  or  indeed  that  he  pre- 


350  COLERIDGE 

tended  to  any  other  art  or  theory  of  poetic  diction,  besides 
that  which  we  may  all  learn  from  Horace,  Quintilian,  the 
admirable  dialogue  De  Causis  Corruptee  Eloquentice,  or 
Strada's  Prolusions;  if  indeed  natural  good  sense  and  the 
early  study  of  the  best  models  in  his  own  language  had  not 
infused  the  same  maxims  more  securely,  and,  if  I  may  ven- 
ture the  expression,  more  vitally.  All  that  could  have  been 
fairly  deduced  was,  that  in  his  taste  and  estimation  of 
writers  Mr.  Southey  agreed  far  more  with  Warton  than 
with  Johnson.  Nor  do  I  mean  to  deny,  that  at  all  times 
Mr.  Southey  was  of  the  same  mind  with  Sir  Philip  Sidney 
in  preferring  an  excellent  ballad  in  the  humblest  style  of 
poetry  to  twenty  indifferent  poems  that  strutted  in  the 
highest.  And  by  what  have  his  works,  published  since  then, 
been  characterized,  each  more  strikingly  than  the  preced- 
ing, but  by  greater  splendor,  a  deeper  pathos,  profounder 
reflections,  and  a  more  sustained  dignity  of  language  and  of 
metre?  Distant  may  the  period  be,  but  whenever  the  time 
shall  come,  when  all  his  works  shall  be  collected  by  some 
editor  worthy  to  be  his  biographer,  I  trust  that  an  excerpta 
of  all  the  passages  in  which  his  writings,  name,  and  charac- 
ter have  been  attacked,  from  the  pamphlets  and  periodical 
works  of  the  last  twenty  years,  may  be  an  accompaniment. 
Yet  that  it  would  prove  medicinal  in  after  times  I  dare  not 
hope ;  for  as  long  as  there  are  readers  to  be  delighted  with 
calumny,  there  will  be  found  reviewers  to  calumniate.  And 
such  readers  will  become  in  all  probability  more  numerous, 
in  proportion  as  a  still  greater  diffusion  of  literature  shall 
produce  an  increase  of  sciolists ;  and  sciolism  bring  with  it 
petulance  and  presumption.  In  times  of  old,  books  were 
as  religious  oracles ;  as  literature  advanced,  they  next  be- 
came venerable  preceptors ;  they  then  descended  to  the  rank 
of  instructive  friends ;  and  as  their  numbers  increased,  they 
sank  still  lower  to  that  of  entertaining  companions ;  and  at 
present  they  seem  degraded  into  culprits  to  hold  up  their 
hands  at  the  bar  of  every  self-elected,  yet  not  the  less  per- 
emptory, judge,  who  chooses  to  write  from  humor  or  inter- 
est, from  enmity  or  arrogance,  and  to  abide  the  decision  (in 
the  words  of  Jeremy  Taylor)  «  of  him  that  reads  in  malice, 
or  him  that  reads  after  dinner.)) 


BIOGRAPHIA  LITERARIA  351 

Poets  and  Philosophers,  rendered  diffident  by  their  very 
number,  addressed  themselves  to  « learned  readers ;»  then, 
aimed  to  conciliate  the  graces  of  « the  candid  reader ; »  till, 
the  critic  still  rising-  as  the  author  sank,  the  amateurs  of 
literature  collectively  were  erected  into  a  municipality  of 
judges,  and  addressed  as  the  Town !  And  now  finally,  all 
men  being  supposed  able  to  read,  and  all  readers  able  to 
judge,  the  multitudinous  public,  shaped  into  personal  unity 
by  the  magic  of  abstraction,  sits  nominal  despot  on  the 
throne  of  criticism.  But,  alas!  as  in  other  despotisms,  it 
but  echoes  the  decisions  of  its  invisible  ministers,  whose 
intellectual  claims  to  the  guardianship  of  the  Muses  seem, 
for  the  greater  part,  analogous  to  the  physical  qualifications 
which  adapt  their  oriental  brethren  for  the  superintendence 
of  the  Harem.  Thus  it  is  said  that  St.  Nepomuc  was  in- 
stalled the  guardian  of  bridges,  because  he  had  fallen  over 
one,  and  sunk  out  of  sight.  Thus,  too,  St.  Cecilia  is  said 
to  have  been  first  propitiated  by  musicians,  because,  having 
failed  in  her  own  attempts,  she  had  taken  a  dislike  to  the 
art  and  all  its  successful  professors.  But  I  shall  probably 
have  occasion  hereafter  to  deliver  my  convictions  more  at 
large  concerning  this  state  of  things,  and  its  influences  on 
taste,  genius,  and  morality. 

In  the  Thalaba,  the  Madoc,  and  still  more  evidently,  in 
the  unique  Cid,  the  Kehama,  and  as  last,  so  best,  the  Don 
Roderick,  Southey  has  given  abundant  proof :  «  Se  cogitdsse 
qudm  sit  magnum  dare  aliquid  in  manus  hominum  :  nee  per- 
suader e  sibi  posse,  non  scepe  tractandum  quod  placer e  et  semper 
et  omnibus  cupiat.)) — Plin.  Ep.  Lib.  7,  Ep.  17.  But,  on  the 
other  hand,  I  guess  that  Mr.  Southey  was  quite  unable  to 
comprehend  wherein  could  consist  the  crime  or  mischief  of 
printing  half  a  dozen  or  more  playful  poems ;  or,  to  speak 
more  generally,  compositions  which  would  be  enjoyed  or 
passed  over,  according  as  the  taste  and  humor  of  the  reader 
might  chance  to  be,  provided  they  contained  nothing  im- 
moral. In  the  present  age  ((peritura  par  cere  charts))  is  em- 
phatically an  unreasonable  demand.  The  merest  trifle  he 
ever  sent  abroad  had  tenfold  better  claims  to  its  ink  and 
paper,  than  all  the  silly  criticisms  which  prove  no  more 
than  that  the  critic  was  not  one  of  those  for  whom  the  trifle 


352  COLERIDGE 

was  written,  and  than  all  the  grave  exhortations  to  a  greater 
reverence  for  the  public.  As  if  the  passive  page  of  a  book, 
by  having  an  epigram  or  doggerel  tale  impressed  on  it,  in- 
stantly assumed  at  once  locomotive  power  and  a  sort  of 
ubiquity,  so  as  to  flutter  and  buzz  in  the  ear  of  the  public, 
to  the  sore  annoyance  of  the  said  mysterious  personage. 
But  what  gives  an  additional  and  more  ludicrous  absurdity 
to  these  lamentations  is  the  curious  fact,  that  if,  in  a  volume 
of  poetry,  the  critic  should  find  poem  or  passage  which  he 
deems  more  especially  worthless,  he  is  sure  to  select  and 
reprint  it  in  the  review ;  by  which,  on  his  own  grounds,  he 
wastes  as  much  more  paper  than  the  author,  as  the  copies 
of  a  fashionable  review  are  more  numerous  than  those  of 
the  original  book ;  in  some,  and  those  the  most  prominent 
instances,  as  ten  thousand  to  five  hundred.  I  know  nothing 
that  surpasses  the  vileness  of  deciding  on  the  merits  of  a 
poet  or  painter — not  by  characteristic  defects,  for  where 
there  is  genius,  these  always  point  to  his  characteristic 
beauties — but  by  accidental  failures  or  faulty  passages ;  ex- 
cept the  imprudence  of  defending  it,  as  the  proper  duty  and 
most  instructive  part  of  criticism.  Omit,  or  pass  slightly 
over,  the  expression,  grace,  and  grouping  of  Raffael's  fig- 
ures ;  but  ridicule  in  detail  the  knitting-needles  and  broom- 
twigs  that  are  to  represent  trees  in  his  back  grounds,  and 
never  let  him  hear  the  last  of  his  gallipots !  Admit  that  the 
Allegro  and  Penseroso  of  Milton  are  not  without  merit ;  but 
repay  yourself  for  this  concession  by  reprinting  at  length 
the  two  poems  on  the  University  Carrier!  As  a  fair  speci- 
men of  his  Sonnets,  quote  : 

"A  Book  was  writ  of  late  called  Tetrachordon ; " 

and  as  characteristic  of  his  rhythm  and  metre,  cite  his  lit- 
eral translation  of  the  first  and  second  Psalm !  In  order  to 
justify  yourself,  you  need  only  assert  that,  had  you  dwelt 
chiefly  on  the  beauties  and  excellencies  of  the  poet,  the  ad- 
miration of  these  might  seduce  the  attention  of  future 
writers  from  the  objects  of  their  love  and  wonder,  to  an 
imitation  of  the  few  poems  and  passages  in  which  the  poet 
was  most  unlike  himself. 

But  till  reviews  are  conducted  on  far  other  principles,  and 


BIOGRAPHIA  LITERARIA  353 

with  far  other  motives ;  till  in  the  place  of  arbitrary  dicta- 
tion and  petulant  sneers,  the  reviewers  support  their  deci- 
sions by  reference  to  fixed  canons  of  criticism,  previously 
established  and  deduced  from  the  nature  of  man ;  reflecting 
minds  will  pronounce  it  arrogance  in  them  thus  to  announce 
themselves  to  men  of  letters  as  the  guides  of  their  taste  and 
judgment.  To  the  purchaser  and  mere  reader  it  is,  at  all 
events,  an  injustice.  He  who  tells  me  that  there  are  defects 
in  a  new  work,  tells  me  nothing  which  I  should  not  have 
taken  for  granted  without  his  information.  But  he  who 
points  out  and  elucidates  the  beauties  of  an  original  work, 
does  indeed  give  me  interesting  information,  such  as  expe- 
rience would  not  have  authorized  me  in  anticipating.  And 
as  to  compositions  which  the  authors  themselves  announce 
with  kkHcbc  ipsi  novimus  esse  nihil,y>  why  should  we  judge  by 
a  different  rule  two  printed  works,  only  because  the  one  au- 
thor is  alive  and  the  other  in  his  grave?  What  literary  man 
has  not  regretted  the  prudery  of  Spratt  in  refusing  to  let 
his  friend  Cowley  appear  in  his  slippers  and  dressing-gown? 
I  am  not  perhaps  the  only  one  who  has  derived  an  innocent 
amusement  from  the  riddles,  conundrums,  trisyllable  lines, 
etc. ,  etc. ,  of  Swift  and  his  correspondents,  in  hours  of  lan- 
guor, when  to  have  read  his  more  finished  works  would 
have  been  useless  to  myself,  and,  in  some  sort,  an  act  of 
injustice  to  the  author.  But  I  am  at  a  loss  to  conceive  by 
what  perversity  of  judgment  these  relaxations  of  his  genius 
could  be  employed  to  diminish  his  fame  as  the  writer  of 
Gulliver's  Travels  and  the  Tale  of  a  Tub.  Had  Mr.  Southey 
written  twice  as  many  poems  of  inferior  merit  or  partial  in- 
terest as  have  enlivened  the  journals  of  the  day,  they  would 
have  added  to  his  honor  with  good  and  wise  men,  not  merely 
or  principally  as  proving  the  versatility  of  his  talents,  but 
as  evidences  of  the  purity  of  that  mind,  which  even  in  its 
levities  never  wrote  a  line  which  it  need  regret  on  any 
moral  account. 

I  have  in  imagination  transferred  to  the  future  biographer 
the  duty  of  contrasting  Southey's  fixed  and  well-earned 
fame,  with  the  abuse  and  indefatigable  hostility  of  his  anony- 
mous critics  from  his  early  youth  to  his  ripest  manhood. 
But  I  cannot  think  so  ill  of  human  nature  as  not  to  believe, 
«3 


354  COLERIDGE 

that  these  critics  have  already  taken  shame  to  themselves, 
whether  they  consider  the  object  of  their  abuse  in  his  moral 
or  his  literary  character.  For  reflect  but  on  the  variety 
and  extent  of  his  acquirements!  He  stands  second  to  no 
man,  either  as  an  historian  or  as  a  bibliographer ;  and  when 
I  regard  him  as  a  popular  essayist,  (for  the  articles  of  his 
compositions  in  the  reviews  are  for  the  greater  part  essays 
on  subjects  of  deep  or  curious  interest  rather  than  criticisms 
on  particular  works) — I  look  in  vain  for  any  writer,  who  has 
conveyed  so  much  information,  from  so  many  and  such 
recondite  sources,  with  so  many  just  and  original  reflec- 
tions, in  a  style  so  lively  and  poignant,  yet  so  uniformly 
classical  and  perspicuous;  no  one  in  short  who  has  com- 
bined so  much  wisdom  with  so  much  wit ;  so  much  truth 
and  knowledge  with  so  much  life  and  fancy.  His  prose  is 
always  intelligible  and  always  entertaining.  In  poetry  he 
has  attempted  almost  every  species  of  composition  known 
before,  and  he  has  added  new  ones ;  and  if  we  except  the 
highest  lyric,  (in  which  how  few,  how  very  few  even  of  the 
greatest  minds  have  been  fortunate)  he  has  attempted  every 
species  successfully:  from  the  political  song  of  the  day, 
thrown  off  in  the  playful  overflow  of  honest  joy  and  patriotic 
exultation,  to  the  wild  ballad;  from  epistolary  ease  and 
graceful  narrative,  to  the  austere  and  impetuous  moral 
declamation ;  from  the  pastoral  claims  and  wild  streaming 
lights  of  the  Thalaba,  in  which  sentiment  and  imagery  have 
given  permanence  even  to  the  excitement  of  curiosity ;  and 
from  the  full  blaze  of  the  Kehama  (a  gallery  of  finished 
pictures  in  one  splendid  fancy  piece,  in  which,  notwith- 
standing, the  moral  grandeur  rises  gradually  above  the  bril- 
liance of  the  coloring  and  the  boldness  and  novelty  of  the 
machinery)  to  the  more  sober  beauties  of  the  Madoc ;  and 
lastly,  from  the  Madoc  to  his  Roderick,  in  which,  retaining 
all  his  former  excellencies  of  a  poet  eminently  inventive  and 
picturesque,  he  has  surpassed  himself  in  language  and 
metre,  in  the  construction  of  the  whole,  and  in  the  splendor 
of  particular  passages. 

Here  then  shall  I  conclude?  No!  The  characters  of  the 
deceased,  like  the  encomia  on  tombstones,  as  they  are  de- 
scribed with  religious  tenderness,  so  are  they  read,  with 


BIOGRAPHIA  LITERARIA  355 

allowing  sympathy  indeed,  but  yet  with  rational  deduction. 
There  are  men  who  deserve  a  higher  record;  men  with 
whose  characters  it  is  the  interest  of  their  contemporaries, 
no  less  than  that  of  posterity,  to  be  made  acquainted ;  while 
it  is  yet  possible  for  impartial  censure,  and  even  for  quick- 
sighted  envy,  to  cross-examine  the  tale  without  offence  to 
the  courtesies  of  humanity ;  and  while  the  eulogist  detected 
in  exaggeration  or  falsehood  must  pay  the  full  penalty  of 
his  baseness  in  the  contempt  which  brands  the  convicted 
flatterer.  Publicly  has  Mr.  Southey  been  reviled  by  men, 
who  (I  would  fain  hope  for  the  honor  of  human  nature) 
hurled  fire-brands  against  a  figure  of  their  own  imagination, 
publicly  have  his  talents  been  depreciated,  his  principles 
denounced;  as  publicly  do  I  therefore,  who  have  known 
him  intimately,  deem  it  my  duty  to  leave  recorded,  that  it 
is  Southey 's  almost  unexampled  felicity  to  possess  the  best 
gifts  of  talent  and  genius  free  from  all  their  characteristic 
defects.  To  those  who  remember  the  state  of  our  public 
schools  and  universities  some  twenty  years  past,  it  will  ap- 
pear no  ordinary  praise  in  any  man  to  have  passed  from  in- 
nocence into  virtue,  not  only  free  from  all  vicious  habit,  but 
unstained  by  one  act  of  intemperance,  or  the  degradations 
akin  to  intemperance.  That  scheme  of  head,  heart,  and 
habitual  demeanor,  which  in  his  early  manhood,  and  first 
controversial  writings,  Milton,  claiming  the  privilege  of 
self-defence,  asserts  of  himself,  and  challenges  his  calumni- 
ators to  disprove;  this  will  his  school-mates,  his  fellow- 
collegians,  and  his  maturer  friends,  with  a  confidence  pro- 
portioned to  the  intimacy  of  their  knowledge,  bear  witness 
to,  as  again  realized  in  the  life  of  Robert  Southey.  But 
still  more  striking  to  those,  who  by  biography  or  by  their 
own  experience  are  familiar  with  the  general  habits  of 
genius,  will  appear  the  poet's  matchless  industry  and  perse- 
verance in  his  pursuits ;  the  worthiness  and  dignity  of  those 
pursuits ;  his  generous  submission  to  tasks  of  transitory  in- 
terest, or  such  as  his  genius  alone  could  make  otherwise ; 
and  that  having  thus  more  than  satisfied  the  claims  of  affec- 
tion or  prudence,  he  should  yet  have  made  for  himself  time 
and  power,  to  achieve  more,  and  in  more  various  depart- 
ments, than  almost  any  other  writer  has  done,  though  em- 


356  COLERIDGE 

ployed  wholly  on  subjects  of  his  own  choice  and  ambition. 
But  as  Southey  possesses,  and  is  not  possessed  by,  his  gen- 
ius, even  so  is  he  the  master  even  of  his  virtues.  The  regu- 
lar and  methodical  tenor  of  his  daily  labors,  which  would  be 
deemed  rare  in  the  most  mechanical  pursuits,  and  might  be 
envied  by  the  mere  man  of  business,  loses  all  semblance  of 
formality  in  the  dignified  simplicity  of  his  manners,  in  the 
spring  and  healthful  cheerfulness  of  his  spirits.  Always 
employed,  his  friends  find  him  always  at  leisure.  No  less 
punctual  in  trifles,  than  steadfast  in  the  performance  of  high- 
est duties,  he  inflicts  none  of  those  small  pains  and  discom- 
forts which  irregular  men  scatter  about  them,  and  which  in 
the  aggregate  so  often  become  formidable  obstacles  both  to 
happiness  and  utility;  while  on  the  contrary  he  bestows  all 
the  pleasures,  and  inspires  all  that  ease  of  mind  on  those 
around  him  or  connected  with  him,  which  perfect  consist- 
ency, and  (if  such  a  word  might  be  framed)  absolute  relia- 
bility, equally  in  small  as  in  great  concerns,  cannot  but  in- 
spire and  bestow:  when  this  too  is  softened  without  being 
weakened  by  kindness  and  gentleness.  I  know  few  men 
who  so  well  deserve  the  character  which  an  ancient  attrib- 
utes to  Marcus  Cato,  namely,  that  he  was  likest  virtue,  inas- 
much as  he  seemed  to  act  aright,  not  in  obedience  to  any 
law  or  outward  motive,  but  by  the  necessity  of  a  happy 
nature  which  could  not  act  otherwise.  As  son,  brother, 
husband,  father,  master,  friend,  he  moves  with  firm  yet  light 
steps,  alike  unostentatious,  and  alike  exemplary.  As  a 
writer,  he  has  uniformly  made  his  talents  subservient  to  the 
best  interests  of  humanity,  of  public  virtue,  and  domestic 
piety ;  his  cause  has  ever  been  the  cause  of  pure  religion 
and  of  liberty,  of  national  independence  and  of  national 
illumination.  When  future  critics  shall  weigh  out  his  guer- 
don of  praise  and  censure,  it  will  be  Southey  the  poet  only, 
that  will  supply  them  with  the  scanty  materials  for  the 
latter.  They  will  likewise  not  fail  to  record,  that  as  no  man 
was  ever  a  more  constant  friend,  never  had  poet  more 
friends  and  honorers  among  the  good  of  all  parties ;  and  that 
quacks  in  education,  quacks  in  politics,  and  quacks  in  criti- 
cism were  his  only  enemies. 


BIOGRAPHIA  LITERARIA  357 


A  CHAPTER  OF  DIGRESSION  AND  ANECDOTES,  AS  AN  INTERLUDE 
PRECEDING  THAT  ON  THE  NATURE  AND  GENESIS  OF  THE 
IMAGINATION  OR  PLASTIC  POWER — On  PEDANTRY  AND  PE- 
DANTIC expressions — Advice  to  young  authors  respect- 
ing publication — Various  anecdotes  of  the  author's 
literary  life,  and  the  progress  of  his  opinions  in 
religion  and  politics. 

«  Esemplastic.  The  word  is  not  in  Johnson,  nor  have  I  met 
with  it  elsewhere.))  Neither  have  I!  I  constructed  it  my- 
self from  the  Greek  words,  tis  h  xXdrzziv,  i.e.,  to  shape  into 
one;  because,  having  to  convey  a  new  sense,  I  thought 
that  a  new  term  would  both  aid  the  recollection  of  my 
meaning,  and  prevent  its  being  confounded  with  the  usual 
import  of  the  word,  imagination.  «  But  this  is  pedantry ! » 
Not  necessarily  so,  I  hope.  If  I  am  not  mis-informed, 
pedantry  consists  in  the  use  of  words  unsuitable  to  the  time 
place,  and  company.  The  language  of  the  market  would 
be  in  the  schools  as  pedantic,  though  it  might  not  be  repro- 
bated by  that  name,  as  the  language  of  the  schools  in  the 
market.  The  mere  man  of  the  world,  who  insists  that  no 
other  terms  but  such  as  occur  in  common  conversation 
should  be  employed  in  a  scientific  disquisition,  and  with  no 
greater  precision,  is  as  truly  a  pedant  as  the  man  of  letters, 
who  either  over-rating  the  acquirements  of  his  auditors,  or 
misled  by  his  own  familiarity  with  technical  or  scholastic 
terms,  converses  at  the  wine-table  with  his  mind  fixed  on 
his  museum  or  laboratory ;  even  though  the  latter  pedant 
instead  of  desiring  his  wife  to  make  the  tea,  should  bid  her 
add  to  the  quant,  suff.  of  thea  Sinensis  the  oxide  of  hydrogen 
saturated  with  caloric.  To  use  the  colloquial  (and  in  truth 
somewhat  vulgar)  metaphor,  if  the  pedant  of  the  cloister, 
and  the  pedant  of  the  lobby,  both  smell  equally  of  the  shop, 
yet  the  odor  from  the  Russian  binding  of  good  old  authentic- 
looking  folios  and  quartos  is  less  annoying  than  the  steams 
from  the  tavern  or  bagnio.  Nay,  though  the  pedantry  of 
the  scholar  should  betray  a  little  ostentation,  yet  a  well- 
conditioned  mind  would  more  easily,  methinks,  tolerate  the 
fox  brush  of  learned  vanity,  than  the  sans  culotterie  of  a 


358  COLERIDGE 

contemptuous  ignorance,  that  assumes  a  merit  from  mutila- 
tion in  the  self-consoling  sneer  at  the  pompous  incumbrance 
of  tails. 

The  first  lesson  of  philosophic  discipline  is  to  wean  the 
student's  attention  from  the  degrees  of  things,  which  alone 
form  the  vocabulary  of  common  life,  and  to  direct  it  to  the 
kind  abstracted  from  degree.  Thus  the  chemical  student 
is  taught  not  to  be  startled  at  disquisitions  on  the  heat  in 
ice,  or  on  latent  and  fixable  light.  In  such  discourse  the 
instructor  has  no  other  alternative  than  either  to  use  old 
words  with  new  meanings  (the  plan  adopted  by  Darwin  in 
his  Zoonomia;)  or  to  introduce  new  terms,  after  the  exam- 
ple of  Linnaeus,  and  the  framers  of  the  present  chemical 
nomenclature.  The  latter  mode  is  evidently  preferable, 
were  it  only  that  the  former  demands  a  twofold  exertion  of 
thought  in  one  and  the  same  act.  For  the  reader  (or  hearer) 
is  required  not  only  to  learn  and  bear  in  mind  the  new  defi- 
nition ;  but  to  unlearn,  and  keep  out  of  his  view,  the  old 
and  habitual  meaning ;  a  far  more  difficult  and  perplexing 
task,  and  for  which  the  mere  semblance  of  eschewing 
pedantry  seems  to  me  an  inadequate  compensation.  Where 
indeed,  it  is  in  our  power  to  recall  an  appropriate  term  that 
had  without  sufficient  reason  become  obsolete,  it  is  doubtless 
a  less  evil  to  restore  than  to  coin  anew.  Thus  to  express 
in  one  word  all  that  appertains  to  the  perception  considered 
as  passive,  and  merely  recipient,  I  have  adopted  from  our 
elder  classics  the  word  sensuous ;  because  sensual  is  not  at 
present  used,  except  in  a  bad  sense,  or  at  least  as  a  moral 
distinction,  while  sensitive  and  sensible  would  each  convey  a 
different  meaning.  Thus  too  I  have  followed  Hooker, 
Sanderson,  Milton,  etc.,  in  designating  the  immediateness 
of  any  act  or  object  of  knowledge  by  the  word  intuition, 
used  sometimes  subjectively,  sometimes  objectively,  even 
as  we  use  the  word  thought ;  now  as  the  thought,  or  act  of 
thinking,  and  now  as  a  thought,  or  the  object  of  our  reflec- 
tion ;  and  we  do  this  without  confusion  or  obscurity.  The 
very  words,  objective  and  subjective,  of  such  constant  recur- 
rence in  the  schools  of  yore,  I  have  ventured  to  re-introduce, 
because  I  could  not  so  briefly  or  conveniently,  by  any  more 
familiar  terms,  distinguish  the  percipere  from  the  percipi. 


BIOGRAPHIA  LITERARIA  359 

Lastly,  I  have  cautiously  discriminated  the  terms,  the  rea- 
son, and  the  understanding,  encouraged  and  confirmed  by 
the  authority  of  our  genuine  divines,  and  philosophers,  be- 
fore the  Revolution. 

"both  life,  and  sense. 

Fancy,  and  understanding :  whence  the  soul 

Reason  receives,  and  reason  is  her  being, 

Discursive  or  intuitive.     Discourse 

Is  oftest  your's,  the  latter  most  is  our's, 

Differing  but  in  degree,  in  kind  the  same." 

Paradise  Lost,  Book  V. 

I  say,  that  I  was  confirmed  by  authority  so  venerable :  for  I 
had  previous  and  higher  motives  in  my  own  conviction  of 
the  importance,  nay,  of  the  necessity  of  the  distinction,  as 
both  an  indispensable  condition  and  a  vital  part  of  all  sound 
speculation  in  metaphysics,  ethical  or  theological.  To  es- 
tablish this  distinction  was  one  main  object  of  The  Friend; 
if  even  in  a  biography  of  my  own  literary  life  I  can  with 
propriety  refer  to  a  work  which  was  printed  rather  than 
published,  or  so  published  that  it  had  been  well  for  the  un- 
fortunate author  if  it  had  remained  in  manuscript !  I  have 
even  at  this  time  bitter  cause  for  remembering  that,  which 
a  number  of  my  subscribers  have  but  a  trifling  motive  for 
forgetting.  This  effusion  might  have  been  spared;  but  I 
would  feign  flatter  myself  that  the  reader  will  be  less  aus- 
tere than  an  oriental  professor  of  the  bastinado,  who,  during 
an  attempt  to  extort  per  argumentum  baculinum  a  full  con- 
fession from  a  culprit,  interrupted  his  outcry  of  pain  by  re- 
minding him,  that  it  was  «  a  mere  digression !  »  «  All  this 
noise,  Sir !  is  nothing  to  the  point,  and  no  sort  of  answer  to 
my  questions !  »  «Ah!  but»  (replied  the  sufferer),  « it  is  the 
most  pertinent  reply  in  nature  to  your  blows. » 

An  imprudent  man  of  common  goodness  of  heart,  cannot 
but  wish  to  turn  even  his  imprudences  to  the  benefit  of 
others,  as  far  as  this  is  possible.  If  therefore  any  one  of 
the  readers  of  this  semi-narrative  should  be  preparing  or 
intending  a  periodical  work,  I  warn  him,  in  the  first  place, 
against  trusting  in  the  number  of  names  on  his  subscription 
list.  For  he  cannot  be  certain  that  the  names  were  put 
down  by  sufficient  authority ;  or  should  that  be  ascertained, 
it  still  remains  to  be  known  whether  they  were  not  extorted 


360  COLERIDGE 

by  some  over  zealous  friend's  importunity;  whether  the 
subscriber  had  not  yielded  his  name  merely  from  want  of 
courage  to  answer,  no !  and  with  the  intention  of  dropping 
the  work  as  soon  as  possible.  One  gentleman  procured  me 
nearly  a  hundred  names  for  The  Friend,  and  not  only  took 
frequent  opportunity  to  remind  me  of  his  success  in  his  can- 
vass, but  labored  to  impress  my  mind  with  the  sense  of  the 
obligation  I  was  under  to  the  subscribers;  for  (as  he  very 
pertinently  admonished  me)  «  fifty-two  shillings  a  year  was 
a  large  sum  to  be  bestowed  on  one  individual,  where  there 
were  so  many  objects  of  charity  with  strong  claims  to  the 
assistance  of  the  benevolent.))  Of  these  hundred  patrons 
ninety  threw  up  the  publication  before  the  fourth  number, 
without  any  notice;  though  it  was  well  known  to  them, 
that  in  consequence  of  the  distance,  and  the  slowness  and 
irregularity  of  the  conveyance,  I  was  compelled  to  lay  in  a 
stock  of  stamped  paper  for  at  least  eight  weeks  beforehand ; 
each  sheet  of  which  stood  me  in  five-pence  previous  to  its 
arrival  at  my  printer's;  though  the  subscription  money  was 
not  to  be  received  till  the  twenty-first  week  after  the  com- 
mencement of  the  work ;  and  lastly,  though  it  was  in  nine 
cases  out  of  ten  impracticable  for  me  to  receive  the  money 
for  two  or  three  numbers  without  paying  an  equal  sum  for 
the  postage. 

In  confirmation  of  my  first  caveat,  I  will  select  one  fact 
among  many.  On  my  list  of  subscribers,  among  a  consider- 
able number  of  names  equally  flattering,  was  that  of  an 
Earl  of  Cork,  with  his  address.  He  might  as  well  have  been 
an  Earl  of  Bottle  for  aught  I  knew  of  him,  who  had  been 
content  to  reverence  the  peerage  in  abstracto,  rather  than 
in  concretis.  Of  course  The  Friend  was  regularly  sent  as 
far,  if  I  remember  right,  as  the  eighteenth  number:  i.e.,  till 
a  fortnight  before  the  subscription  was  to  be  paid.  And  lo! 
just  at  this  time  I  received  a  letter  from  his  lordship,  re- 
proving me  in  language  far  more  lordly  than  courteous  for 
my  impudence  in  directing  my  pamphlets  to  him,  who  knew 
nothing  of  me  or  my  work !  Seventeen  or  eighteen  num- 
bers of  which,  however,  his  lordship  was  pleased  to  retain, 
probably  for  the  culinary  or  the  post-culinary  conveniences 
of  his  servants. 


BIOGRAPHIA   LITERARIA  361 

Secondly,  I  warn  all  others  from  the  attempt  to  deviate 
from  the  ordinary  mode  of  publishing  a  work  by  the  trade. 
I  thought,  indeed,  that  to  the  purchaser  it  was  indifferent 
whether  thirty  per  cent,  of  the  purchase-money  went  to  the 
booksellers  or  to  the  government ;  and  that  the  convenience 
of  receiving  the  work  by  the  post  at  his  own  door  would 
give  the  preference  to  the  latter.  It  is  hard,  I  own,  to  have 
been  laboring  for  years  in  collecting  and  arranging  the 
materials;  to  have  spent  every  shilling  that  could  be  spared 
after  the  necessaries  of  life  had  been  furnished,  in  buying 
books,  or  in  journeys  for  the  purpose  of  consulting  them,  or 
of  acquiring  facts  at  the  fountain  head;  then  to  buy  the 
paper,  pay  for  the  printing,  etc. ,  all  at  least  fifteen  per  cent, 
beyond  what  the  trade  would  have  paid ;  and  then  after  all 
to  give  thirty  per  cent.,  not  of  the  net  profits,  but  of  the 
gross  results  of  the  sale,  to  a  man  who  has  merely  to  give 
the  books  shelf  or  warehouse  room,  and  permit  his  appren- 
tice to  hand  them  over  the  counter  to  those  who  may  ask  for 
them ;  and  this  too  copy  by  copy,  although  if  the  work  be  on 
any  philosophical  or  scientific  subject,  it  may  be  years  be- 
fore the  edition  is  sold  off.  All  this,  I  confess,  must  seem 
a  hardship,  and  one,  to  which  the  products  of  industry  in  no 
other  mode  of  exertion  are  subject.  Yet  even  this  is  better, 
far  better,  than  to  attempt  in  any  way  to  unite  the  functions 
of  author  and  publisher.  But  the  most  prudent  mode  is  to 
sell  the  copyright,  at  least  of  one  or  more  editions,  for  the 
most  that  the  trade  will  offer.  By  few  only  can  a  large  re- 
muneration be  expected ;  but  fifty  pounds  and  ease  of  mind 
are  of  more  real  advantage  to  a  literary  man,  than  the  chance 
of  five  hundred  with  the  certainty  of  insult  and  degrading 
anxieties.  I  shall  have  been  grievously  misunderstood  if 
this  statement  should  be  interpreted  as  written  with  the  de- 
sire of  detracting  from  the  character  of  booksellers  or  pub- 
lishers. The  individuals  did  not  make  the  laws  and  customs 
of  their  trade,  but,  as  in  every  other  trade,  take  them  as  they 
find  them.  Till  the  evil  can  be  proved  to  be  removable  and 
without  the  substitution  of  an  equal  or  greater  inconve- 
nience, it  were  neither  wise  or  manly  even  to  complain  of  it. 
But  to  use  it  as  a  pretext  for  speaking,  or  even  for  thinking 
or  feeling,  unkindly  or  opprobriously  of  the  tradesmen,  as 


362  COLERIDGE 

individuals,  would  be  something-  worse  than  unwise  or  even 
than  unmanly ;  it  would  be  immoral  and  calumnious !  My 
motives  point  in  a  far  different  direction  and  to  far  other 
objects,  as  will  be  seen  in  the  conclusion  of  the  chapter. 

A  learned  and  exemplary  old  clergyman,  who  many  years 
ago  went  to  his  reward  followed  by  the  regrets  and  blessings 
of  his  flock,  published  at  his  own  expense  two  volumes 
octavo,  entitled,  A  New  Theory  of  Redemption.  The  work 
was  most  severely  handled  in  the  Monthly  or  Critical  Re- 
view, I  forget  which,  and  this  unprovoked  hostility  became 
the  good  old  man's  favorite  topic  of  conversation  among  his 
friends.  Well!  (he  used  to  exclaim)  in  the  second  edition 
I  shall  have  an  opportunity  of  exposing  both  the  ignorance 
and  the  malignit)'  of  the  anonymous  critic.  Two  or  three 
years  however  passed  by  without  any  tidings  from  the  book- 
seller, who  had  undertaken  the  printing  and  publication  of 
the  work,  and  who  was  perfectly  at  his  ease,  as  the  author 
was  known  to  be  a  man  of  large  property.  At  length  the 
accounts  were  written  for ;  and  in  the  course  of  a  few  weeks 
they  were  presented  by  the  rider  for  the  house,  in  person. 
My  old  friend  put  on  his  spectacles,  and  holding  the  scroll 
with  no  very  firm  hand,  began  «  Paper,  so  much  :  Oh,  mod- 
erate enough — not  at  all  beyond  my  expectation !  Printing, 
so  much  :  well !  moderate  enough !  Stitching,  covers,  adver- 
tisements, carriage,  etc.,  so  much.)) — Still  nothing  amiss. 
Selleridge  (for  orthography  is  no  necessary  part  of  a  book- 
seller's literary  acquirements)  £$  t>s-  «  Bless  me !  only  three 
guineas  for  the  what  d'ye  call  it?  the  selleridge  ?  »  «  No  more, 
sir,»  replied  the  rider.  «Nay,  but  that  is  too  moderate,)) 
rejoined  my  old  friend.  «  Only  three  guineas  for  selling  a 
thousand  copies  of  a  work  in  two  volumes?))  «Oh,  sir!» 
cries  the  young  traveller,  «you  have  mistaken  the  word. 
There  have  been  none  of  them  sold;  they  have  been  sent 
back  from  London  long  ago ;  and  this  £$  $s.  is  for  the  cel- 
larage, or  warehouse-room  in  our  book  cellar.))  The  work 
was  in  consequence  preferred  from  the  ominous  cellar  of  the 
publisher's  to  the  author's  garret;  and  on  presenting  a  copy 
to  an  acquaintance,  the  old  gentleman  used  to  tell  the  anec- 
dote with  great  humor  and  still  greater  good  nature. 

With  equal  lack  of  worldly  knowledge,  I  was  a  far  more 


BIOGRAPHIA   LITERARIA  363 

than  equal  sufferer  for  it,  at  the  very  outset  of  my  author- 
ship. Toward  the  close  of  the  first  year  from  the  time  that, 
in  an  inauspicious  hour,  I  left  the  friendly  cloisters  and  the 
happy  grove  of  quiet,  ever  honored  Jesus  College,  Cam- 
bridge, I  was  persuaded  by  sundry  philanthropists  and  anti- 
polemists  to  set  on  foot  a  periodical  work,  entitled  The 
Watchman,  that  (according  to  the  general  motto  of  the  work) 
all  might  kjww  the  truth,  and  that  the  truth  might  make  us 
free  !  In  order  to  exempt  it  from  the  stamp-tax,  and  like- 
wise to  contribute  as  little  as  possible  to  the  supposed  guilt 
of  a  war  against  freedom,  it  was  to  be  published  on  every 
eighth  day,  thirty-two  pages,  large  octavo,  closely  printed, 
and  price  only  fourpence.  Accordingly  with  a  flaming 
prospectus,  ((Knowledge  is  Power,))  «To  cry  the  state  of  the 
political  atmosphere,))  and  so  forth,  I  set  off  on  a  tour  to  the 
north,  from  Bristol  to  Sheffield,  for  the  purpose  of  procuring 
customers,  preaching  by  the  way  in  most  of  the  great  towns, 
as  an  hireless  volunteer,  in  a  blue  coat  and  white  waistcoat, 
that  not  a  rag  of  the  woman  of  Babylon  might  be  seen  on 
me.  For  I  was  at  that  time  and  long  after,  though  a  Trin- 
itarian (i.e.,  ad  nor  mam  Platonis)  in  philosophy,  yet  a  zeal- 
ous Unitarian  in  religion ;  more  accurately,  I  was  a  psilan- 
thropist,  one  of  those  who  believe  our  Lord  to  have  been  the 
real  Son  of  Joseph,  and  who  lay  the  main  stress  on  the 
Resurrection  rather  than  on  the  Crucifixion.  O  !  never  can 
I  remember  those  days  with  either  shame  or  regret.  For  I 
was  most  sincere,  most  disinterested!  My  opinions  were 
indeed  in  many  and  most  important  points  erroneous;  but 
my  heart  was  single.  Wealth,  rank,  life  itself,  then  seemed 
cheap  to  me,  compared  with  the  interests  of  (what  I  believed 
to  be)  the  truth,  and  the  will  of  my  Maker.  I  cannot  even 
accuse  myself  of  having  been  actuated  by  vanity ;  for  in  the 
expansion  of  my  enthusiasm  I  did  not  think  of  myself  at  all. 
My  campaign  commenced  at  Birmingham ;  and  my  first 
attack  was  on  a  rigid  Calvinist,  a  tallow-chandler  by  trade. 
He  was  a  tall  dingy  man,  in  whom  length  was  so  predomi- 
nant over  breadth,  that  he  might  almost  have  been  borrowed 
for  a  foundry  poker.  O  that  face!  a  face  xar'  t[ifaotv\  I 
have  it  before  me  at  this  moment.  The  lank,  black,  twine- 
like hair,  pingui-nitescent,  cut  in  a  straight  line  along  the 


364  COLERIDGE 

black  stubble  of  his  thin  gunpowder  eyebrows,  that  looked 
like  a  scorched  after-math  from  a  last  week's  shaving.  His 
coat  collar  behind  in  perfect  unison,  both  of  color  and  lus- 
tre, with  the  coarse  yet  glib  cordage  that  I  suppose  he  called 
his  hair,  and  which  with  a  bend  inward  at  the  nape  of  the 
neck  (the  only  approach  to  flexure  in  his  whole  figure)  slunk 
in  behind  his  waistcoat;  while  the  countenance  lank,  dark, 
very  hard,  and  with  strong,  perpendicular  furrows,  gave  me 
a  dim  notion  of  some  one  looking  at  me  through  a  used  grid- 
iron, all  soot,  grease,  and  iron!  But  he  was  one  of  the 
thorough-bred,  a  true  lover  of  liberty,  and  (I  was  informed) 
had  proved  to  the  satisfaction  of  many,  that  Mr.  Pitt  was 
one  of  the  horns  of  the  second  beast  in  the  Revelations, 
that  spoke  like  a  dragon.  A  person  to  whom  one  of  my 
letters  of  recommendation  had  been  addressed  was  my  in- 
troducer. It  was  a  new  event  in  my  life,  my  first  stroke  in 
the  new  business  I  had  undertaken  of  an  author,  yea,  and 
of  an  author  trading  on  his  own  account.  My  companion 
after  some  imperfect  sentences  and  a  multitude  of  hums 
and  has  abandoned  the  cause  to  his  client;  and  I  com- 
menced an  harangue  of  half  an  hour  to  Phileleutheros,  the 
tallow-chandler,  varying  my  notes  through  the  whole  gamut 
of  eloquence  from  the  ratiocinative  to  the  declamatory,  and 
in  the  latter  from  the  pathetic  to  the  indignant.  I  argued, 
I  described,  I  promised,  I  prophesied,  and  beginning  with  the 
captivity  of  nations  I  ended  with  the  near  approach  of  the 
millennium,  finishing  the  whole  with  some  of  my  own  verses 
describing  that  glorious  state  out  of  the  Religious  Musings: 
Such  delights, 


As  float  to  earth,  permitted  visitants  ! 
"When  in  some  hour  of  solemn  jubilee 
The  massive  gates  of  Paradise  are  thrown 
Wide  open  :  and  forth  come  in  fragments  wild 
Sweet  echoes  of  unearthly  melodies, 
And  odours  snatched  from  beds  of  Amaranth, 
And  they  that  from  the  crystal  river  of  life 
Spring  up  on  freshened  wing,  ambrosial  gales. 

Religious  Musings. 

My  taper  man  of  lights  listened  with'  perseverant  and 
praiseworthy  patience,  though  (as  I  was  afterwards  told  on 
complaining  of  certain  gales  that  were  not  altogether  am- 


BIOGRAPHIA   LITERARIA  365 

brosial)  it  was  a  melting  day  with  him.  «  And  what,  sir,» 
he  said,  after  a  short  pause,  « might  the  cost  be? »  «Only 
fourpence,»  (O!  how  I  felt  the  anti-climax,  the  abysmal 
bathos  of  that  fourpence !)  «  only  fourpence,  sir,  each  num- 
ber, to  be  published  on  every  eighth  day.»  «That  comes  to 
a  deal  of  money  at  the  end  of  a  year.  And  how  much  did 
you  say  there  was  to  be  for  the  money?))  « Thirty-two 
pages,  sir!  large  octavo,  closely  printed.))  «  Thirty  and  two 
pages?  Bless  me,  why  except  what  I  does  in  a  family  way 
on  the  Sabbath,  that's  more  than  I  ever  reads,  sir!  all  the 
year  round.  I  am  as  great  a  one  as  any  man  in  Brum- 
magem, sir!  for  liberty  and  truth,  and  all  them  sort  of 
things,  but  as  to  this,  no  offence,  I  hope,  sir,  I  must  beg  to 
be  excused.)) 

So  ended  my  first  canvass.  From  causes  that  I  shall 
presently  mention,  I  made  but  one  other  application  in 
person.  This  took  place  at  Manchester,  to  a  stately  and 
opulent  wholesale  dealer  in  cottons.  He  took  my  letter  of 
introduction,  and  having  perused  it,  measured  me  from  head 
to  foot,  and  again  from  foot  to  head,  and  then  asked  if  I  had 
any  bill  or  invoice  of  the  thing.  I  presented  my  prospectus 
to  him ;  he  rapidly  skimmed  and  hummed  over  the  first  side, 
and  still  more  rapidly  the  second  and  concluding  page; 
crushed  it  within  his  fingers  and  the  palm  of  his  hand ;  then 
most  deliberately  and  significantly  rubbed  and  smoothed 
one  part  against  the  other;  and,  lastly,  putting  it  into  his 
pocket,  turned  his  back  upon  me  with  an  « over-run  with 
these  articles !  »  and  so,  without  another  syllable,  retired  into 
his  counting-house ;  and,  I  can  truly  say,  to  my  unspeakable 
amusement. 

This,  as  I  have  said,  was  my  second  and  last  attempt. 
On  returning  baffled  from  the  first,  in  which  I  had  vainly 
essayed  to  repeat  the  miracle  of  Orpheus  with  the  Brum- 
magem patriot,  I  dined  with  the  tradesman  who  had  in- 
troduced me  to  him.  After  dinner  he  importuned  me  to 
smoke  a  pipe  with  him  and  two  or  three  other  ilhiminati  of 
the  same  rank.  I  objected,  both  because  I  was  engaged  to 
spend  the  evening  with  a  minister  and  his  friends,  and  be- 
cause I  had  never  smoked  except  once  or  twice  in  my  life- 
time, and  then  it  was  herb  tobacco  mixed  with  Oronooko. 


366  COLERIDGE 

On  the  assurance,  however,  that  the  tobacco  was  equally 
mild,  and  seeing  too  that  it  was  of  a  yellow  color  (not  for- 
getting the  lamentable  difficulty  I  have  always  experienced 
in  saying  no !  and  in  abstaining  from  what  the  people  about 
me  were  doing),  I  took  half  a  pipe,  filling  the  lower  half  of 
the  bowl  with  salt.  I  was  soon,  however,  compelled  to  re- 
sign it,  in  consequence  of  a  giddiness  and  distressful  feeling 
in  my  eyes,  which,  as  I  had  drank  but  a  single  glass  of  ale, 
must,  I  knew,  have  been  the  effect  of  the  tobacco.  Soon 
after,  deeming  myself  recovered,  I  sallied  forth  to  my  en- 
gagement ;  but  the  walk  and  the  fresh  air  brought  on  all  the 
symptoms  again,  and  I  had  scarcely  entered  the  minister's 
drawing-room,  and  opened  a  small  packet  of  letters  which 
he  had  received  from  Bristol  for  me,  ere  I  sank  back  on  the 
sofa  in  a  sort  of  swoon  rather  than  sleep.  Fortunately,  I 
had  found  just  time  enough  to  inform  him  of  the  confused 
state  of  my  feelings  and  of  the  occasion.  For  here  and  thus 
I  lay,  my  face  like  a  wall  that  is  whitewashing,  deathly  pale, 
and  with  the  cold  drops  of  perspiration  running  down  it 
from  my  forehead,  while  one  after  another  there  dropped  in 
the  different  gentlemen  who  had  been  invited  to  meet  and 
spend  the  evening  with  me,  to  the  number  of  from  fifteen 
to  twenty.  As  the  poison  of  tobacco  acts  but  for  a  short 
time,  I  at  length  awoke  from  insensibility,  and  looked  round 
on  the  party,  my  eyes  dazzled  by  the  candles  which  had 
been  lighted  in  the  interim.  By  way  of  relieving  my  em- 
barrassment, one  of  the  gentlemen  began  the  conversation 
with,  «Have  you  seen  a  paper  to-day,  Mr.  Coleridge?* 
«Sir,»  I  replied,  rubbing  my  eyes,  «I  am  far  from  convinced 
that  a  Christian  is  permitted  to  read  either  newspapers  or 
any  other  works  of  merely  political  and  temporary  interest. » 
This  remark,  so  ludicrously  inapposite  to,  or  rather  incon- 
gruous with,  the  purpose  for  which  I  was  known  to  have 
visited  Birmingham,  and  to  assist  me  in  which  they  were  all 
then  met,  produced  an  involuntary  and  general  burst  of 
laughter ;  and  seldom  indeed  have  I  passed  so  many  delight- 
ful hours  as  I  enjoyed  in  that  room  from  the  moment  of 
that  laugh  till  an  early  hour  the  next  morning.  Never, 
perhaps,  in  so  mixed  and  numerous  a  party,  have  I  since 
heard  conversation  sustained  with  such  animation,  enriched 


BIOGRAPHIA   LITERARIA  367 

with  such  variety  of  information,  and  enlivened  with  such  a 
flow  of  anecdote.  Both  then  and  afterwards  they  all  joined 
in  dissuading  me  from  proceeding  with  my  scheme ;  assured 
me  in  the  most  friendly  and  yet  most  flattering  expressions 
that  the  employment  was  neither  fit  for  me,  nor  I  fit  for  the 
employment.  Yet,  if  I  had  determined  on  persevering  in 
it,  they  promised  to  exert  themselves  to  the  utmost  to  pro- 
cure subscribers,  and  insisted  that  I  should  make  no  more 
applications  in  person,  but  carry  on  the  canvass  by  proxy. 
The  same  hospitable  reception,  the  same  dissuasion,  and 
(that  failing)  the  same  kind  exertions  in  my  behalf,  I  met 
with  at  Manchester,  Derby,  Nottingham,  Sheffield,  indeed 
at  every  place  in  which  I  took  up  my  sojourn.  I  often 
recall  with  affectionate  pleasure  the  many  respectable  men 
who  interested  themselves  for  me,  a  perfect  stranger  to 
them,  not  a  few  of  whom  I  can  still  name  among  my  friends. 
They  will  bear  witness  for  me  how  opposite  even  then  my 
principles  were  to  those  of  Jacobinism,  or  even  of  democ- 
racy, and  can  attest  the  strict  accuracy  of  the  statement 
which  I  have  left  on  record  in  the  10th  and  nth  numbers  of 
The  Friend. 

From  this  rememberable  tour  I  returned  with  nearly  a 
thousand  names  on  the  subscription  list  of  The  Watchman ; 
yet  more  than  half-convinced  that  prudence  dictated  the 
abandonment  of  the  scheme.  But  for  this  very  reason  I 
persevered  in  it ;  for  I  was  at  that  period  of  my  life  so  com- 
pletely hag-ridden  by  the  fear  of  being  influenced  by  selfish 
motives,  that  to  know  a  mode  of  conduct  to  be  the  dictate 
of  prudence,  was  a  sort  of  presumptive  proof  to  my  feelings 
that  the  contrary  was  the  dictate  of  duty.  Accordingly  I 
commenced  the  work,  which  was  announced  in  London  by 
long  bills  in  letters  larger  than  had  ever  been  seen  before, 
and  which  I  have  been  informed,  for  I  did  not  see  them 
myself,  eclipsed  the  glories  even  of  the  lottery  puffs.  But, 
alas !  the  publication  of  the  very  first  number  was  delayed 
beyond  the  day  announced  for  its  appearance.  In  the  sec- 
ond number  an  essay  against  fast  days,  with  a  most  censur- 
able application  of  a  text  from  Isaiah  for  its  motto,  lost  me 
near  five  hundred  of  my  subscribers  at  one  blow.  In  the 
two  following  numbers  I  made  enemies  of  all  my  Jacobin 


368  COLERIDGE 

and  democratic  patrons ;  for  disgusted  by  their  infidelity, 
and  their  adoption  of  French  morals  with  French  psilosophy  ; 
and  perhaps  thinking  that  charity  ought  to  begin  nearest 
home,  instead  of  abusing  the  government  and  the  aristocrats 
chiefly  or  entirely,  as  had  been  expected  of  me,  I  levelled 
my  attacks  at  « modern  patriotism,))  and  even  ventured  to 
declare  my  belief  that,  whatever  the  motives  of  ministers 
might  have  been  for  the  sedition,  or  as  it  was  then  the  fash- 
ion to  call  them,  the  gagging  bills;  yet  the  bills  themselves 
would  produce  an  effect  to  be  desired  by  all  the  true  friends 
of  freedom,  as  far  as  they  should  contribute  to  deter  men 
from  openly  declaiming  on  subjects  the  principles  of  which 
they  had  never  bottomed,  and  from  « pleading  to  the  poor 
and  ignorant,  instead  of  pleading  for  them.»  At  the  same 
time  I  avowed  my  conviction,  that  national  education  and 
a  concurring  spread  of  the  Gospel  were  the  indispensable 
conditions  of  any  true  political  amelioration.  Thus,  by  the 
time  the  seventh  number  was  published,  I  had  the  mortifi- 
cation (but  why  should  I  say  this,  when  in  truth  I  cared  too 
little  for  anything  that  concerned  my  worldly  interests  to 
be  at  all  mortified  about  it?)  of  seeing  the  preceding  num- 
bers exposed  in  sundry  old  iron  shops  for  a  penny  a  piece. 
At  the  ninth  number  I  dropped  the  work.  But  from  the 
London  publisher  I  could  not  obtain  a  shilling.     He  was  a 

and  set  me  at  defiance.     From  other  places  I  procured 

but  little,  and  after  such  delays  as  rendered  that  little  worth 
nothing;  and  I  should  have  been  inevitably  thrown  into  jail 
by  my  Bristol  printer,  who  refused  to  wait  even  for  a  month 
for  a  sum  between  eighty  and  ninety  pounds,  if  the  money 
had  not  been  paid  for  me  by  a  man  by  no  means  affluent,  a 
dear  friend  who  attached  himself  to  me  from  my  first  arrival 
in  Bristol,  who  has  continued  my  friend  with  a  fidelity  un- 
conquered  by  time,  or  even  by  my  own  apparent  neglect ;  a 
friend  from  whom  I  never  received  an  advice  that  was  not 
wise,  or  a  remonstrance  that  was  not  gentle  and  affectionate. 
Conscientiously  an  opponent  of  the  first  revolutionary  war, 
yet  with  my  eyes  thoroughly  opened  to  the  true  character 
and  impotence  of  the  favorers  of  revolutionary  principles  in 
England,  principles  which  I  held  in  abhorrence  (for  it  was 
part  of  my  political  creed  that  whoever  ceased  to  act  as  an 


BIOGRAPHIA   LITERARIA  369 

individual,  by  making  himself  a  member  of  any  society  not 
sanctioned  by  his  government,  forfeited  the  rights  of  a  citi- 
zen), a  vehement  anti-ministerialist,  but  after  the  invasion 
of  Switzerland,  a  more  vehement  anti-Gallican,  and  still 
more  intensely  an  anti-Jacobin,  I  retired  to  a  cottage  at 
Stowey,  and  provided  for  my  scanty  maintenance  by  writ- 
ing verses  for  a  London  Morning  Paper.  I  saw  plainly 
that  literature  was  not  a  profession  by  which  I  could  expect 
to  live ;  for  I  could  not  disguise  from  myself  that,  whatever 
my  talents  might  or  might  not  be  in  other  respects,  yet  they 
were  not  of  the  sort  that  could  enable  me  to  become  a  pop- 
ular writer;  and  that  whatever  my  opinions  might  be  in 
themselves,  they  were  almost  equidistant  from  all  the  three 
.prominent  parties,  the  Pittites,  the  Foxites,  and  the  Demo- 
crats. Of  the  unsaleable  nature  of  my  writings  I  had  an 
amusing  memento  one  morning  from  our  own  servant  girl. 
For,  happening  to  rise  at  an  earlier  hour  than  usual,  I  ob- 
served her  putting  an  extravagant  quantity  of  paper  into 
the  grate  in  order  to  light  the  fire,  and  mildly  checked  her 
for  her  wastefulness:  «  La,  sir,»  replied  poor  Nanny,  «why, 
it  is  only  Watchmen.)) 

I  now  devoted  myself  to  poetry  and  the  study  of  ethics 
and  psychology ;  and  so  profound  was  my  admiration  at  this 
time  of  Hartley's  Essay  on  Man,  that  I  gave  his  name  to 
my  first-born.  In  addition  to  the  gentleman,  my  neighbor, 
whose  garden  joined  on  to  my  little  orchard,  and  the  culti- 
vation of  whose  friendship  had  been  my  sole  motive  in 
choosing  Stowey  for  my  residence,  I  was  so  fortunate  as  to 
acquire,  shortly  after  my  settlement  there,  an  invaluable 
blessing  in  the  society  and  neighborhood  of  one  to  whom  I 
could  look  up  with  equal  reverence,  whether  I  regarded  him 
as  a  poet,  a  philosopher,  or  a  man.  His  conversation  ex- 
tended to  almost  all  subjects,  except  physics  and  politics; 
with  the  latter  he  never  troubled  himself.  Yet  neither  my 
retirement  nor  my  utter  abstraction  from  all  the  disputes  of 
the  day  could  secure  me  in  those  jealous  times  from  suspi- 
cion and  obloquy,  which  did  not  stop  at  me,  but  extended  to 
my  excellent  friend,  whose  perfect  innocence  was  even  ad- 
duced as  a  proof  of  his  guilt.  One  of  the  many  busy  syco- 
phants of  that  day  (I  here  use  the  word  sycophant  in  its 
24 


370  COLERIDGE 

original  sense,  as  a  wretch  who  flatters  the  prevailing  party 
by  informing  against  his  neighbors,  under  pretence  that 
they  are  exporters  of  prohibited  figs  or  fancies!  for  the 
moral  application  of  the  term  it  matters  not  which) ;  one  of 
these  sycophantic  law-mongrels,  discoursing  on  the  politics 
of  the  neighborhood,  uttered  the  following  deep  remark: 
«  As  to  Coleridge,  there  is  not  so  much  harm  in  him,  for  he 
is  a  whirl-brain  that  talks  whatever  comes  uppermost ;  but 

that ;  he  is  the  dark  traitor.     You  never  hear  him  say 

a  syllable  on  the  subject.)) 

Now  that  the  hand  of  Providence  has  disciplined  all  Eu- 
rope into  sobriety,  as  men  tame  wild  elephants,  by  alter- 
nate blows  and  caresses ;  now  that  Englishmen  of  all  classes 
are  restored  to  their  old  English  notions  and  feelings,  it  will 
with  difficulty  be  credited  how  great  an  influence  was  at  that 
time  possessed  and  exerted  by  the  spirit  of  secret  defama- 
tion (the  too  constant  attendant  on  party  zeal!)  during  the 
restless  interim  from  1793  to  the  commencement  of  the 
Addington  administration,  or  the  year  before  the  truce  of 
Amiens.  For  by  the  latter  period  the  minds  of  the  partizans, 
exhausted  by  excess  of  stimulation  and  humbled  by  mutual 
disappointment,  had  become  languid.  The  same  causes  that 
inclined  the  nation  to  peace,  disposed  the  individuals  to 
reconciliation.  Both  parties  had  found  themselves  in  the 
wrong.  The  one  had  confessedly  mistaken  the  moral  char- 
acter of  the  revolution,  and  the  other  had  miscalculated  both 
its  moral  and  its  physical  resources.  The  experiment  was 
made  at  the  price  of  great,  almost,  we  may  say,  of  humili- 
ating sacrifices ;  and  wise  men  foresaw  that  it  would  fail,  at 
least  in  its  direct  and  ostensible  object.  Yet  it  was  pur- 
chased cheaply,  and  realized  an  object  of  equal  value,  and, 
if  possible,  of  still  more  vital  importance.  For  it  brought 
about  a  national  unanimity  unexampled  in  our  history  since 
the  reign  of  Elizabeth :  and  Providence,  never  wanting  to 
a  good  work  when  men  have  done  their  parts,  soon  provided 
a  common  focus  in  the  cause  of  Spain,  which  made  us  all 
once  more  Englishmen,  by  at  once  gratifying  and  correcting 
the  predilections  of  both  parties.  The  sincere  reverers  of 
the  throne  felt  the  cause  of  loyalty  ennobled  by  its  alliance 
with  that  of  freedom ;  while  the  honest  zealots  of  the  people 


BIOGRAPHIA  LITERARIA  371 

could  not  but  admit  that  freedom  itself  assumed  a  more 
winning  form,  humanized  by  loyalty,  and  consecrated  by 
religious  principle.  The  youthful  enthusiasts  who,  flattered 
by  the  morning  rainbow  of  the  French  revolution,  had  made 
a  boast  of  expatriating  their  hopes  and  fears,  now  disci- 
plined by  the  succeeding  storms,  and  sobered  by  increase  of 
years,  had  been  taught  to  prize  and  honor  the  spirit  of 
nationality  as  the  best  safeguard  of  national  independence, 
and  this  again  as  the  absolute  pre-requisite  and  necessary 
basis  of  popular  rights. 

If  in  Spain  too  disappointment  has  nipped  our  too  forward 
expectations,  yet  all  is  not  destroyed  that  is  checked.  The 
crop  was  perhaps  springing  up  too  rank  in  the  stalk,  to  kern 
well :  and  there  were,  doubtless,  symptoms  of  the  Gallican 
blight  on  it.  If  superstition  and  despotism  have  been  suf- 
fered to  let  in  their  wolvish  sheep  to  trample  and  eat  it 
down  even  to  the  surface,  yet  the  roots  remain  alive,  and 
the  second  growth  may  prove  all  the  stronger  and  healthier 
for  the  temporary  interruption.  At  all  events,  to  us  heaven 
has  been  just  and  gracious.  The  people  of  England  did 
their  best,  and  have  received  their  rewards.  Long  may  we 
continue  to  deserve  it !  Causes,  which  it  had  been  too  gen- 
erally the  habit  of  former  statesmen  to  regard  as  belonging 
to  another  world,  are  now  admitted  by  all  ranks  to  have 
been  the  main  agents  of  our  success.  «  We  fought  from 
heaven  ;  the  stars  in  their  courses  fought  against  Sisera.n  If 
then,  unanimity  grounded  on  moral  feelings  has  been  among 
the  least  equivocal  sources  of  our  national  glory,  that  man 
deserves  the  esteem  of  his  countrymen,  even  as  patriots, 
who  devotes  his  life  and  the  utmost  efforts  of  his  intellect 
to  the  preservation  and  continuance  of  that  unanimity  by 
the  disclosure  and  establishment  of  principles.  For  by  these 
all  opinions  must  be  ultimately  tried ;  and  (as  the  feelings 
of  men  are  worthy  of  regard  only  as  far  as  they  are  the 
representatives  of  their  fixed  opinions)  on  the  knowledge  of 
these  all  unanimity,  not  accidental  and  fleeting,  must  be 
grounded.  Let  the  scholar,  who  doubts  this  assertion,  refer 
only  to  the  speeches  and  writings  of  Edmund  Burke,  at  the 
commencement  of  the  American  war,  and  compare-  them 
with  his  speeches  and  writings  at  the  commencement  of  the 


372  COLERIDGE 

French  revolution.  He  will  find  the  principles  exactly  the 
same  and  the  deductions  the  same ;  but  the  practical  infer- 
ences almost  opposite  in  the  one  case  from  those  drawn  in 
the  other ;  yet  in  both  equally  legitimate,  and  in  both  equally 
confirmed  by  the  results.  Whence  gained  he  this  superiority 
of  foresight?  Whence  arose  the  striking  difference,  and  in 
most  instances,  even  the  discrepancy  between  the  grounds 
assigned  by  him,  and  by  those  who  voted  with  him,  on  the 
same  questions?  How  are  we  to  explain  the  notorious  fact, 
that  the  speeches  and  writings  of  Edmund  Burke  are  more 
interesting  at  the  present  day  than  they  were  found  at  the 
time  of  their  first  publication ;  while  those  of  his  illustrious 
confederates  are  either  forgotten,  or  exist  only  to  furnish 
proofs,  that  the  same  conclusion,  which  one  man  had  de- 
duced scientifically,  may  be  brought  out  by  another  in  con- 
sequence of  errors  that  luckily  chanced  to  neutralize  each 
other.  It  would  be  unhandsome  as  a  conjecture,  even  were 
it  not,  as  it  actually  is,  false  in  point  of  fact,  to  attribute 
this  difference  to  deficiency  of  talent  on  the  part  of  Burke's 
friends,  or  of  experience,  or  of  historical  knowledge.  The 
satisfactory  solution  is,  that  Edmund  Burke  possessed  and 
had  sedulously  sharpened  that  eye,  which  sees  all  things, 
actions,  and  events,  in  relation  to  the  laws  that  determine 
their  existence  and  circumscribe  their  possibility.  He  re- 
ferred habitually  to  principles.  He  was  a  scientific  states- 
man ;  and  therefore  a  seer.  For  every  principle  contains  in 
itself  the  germs  of  a  prophecy ;  and  as  the  prophetic  power 
is  the  essential  privilege  of  science,  so  the  fulfilment  of  its 
oracles  supplies  the  outward  and  (to  men  in  general)  the 
only  test  of  its  claim  to  the  title.  Wearisome  as  Burke's 
refinements  appeared  to  his  parliamentary  auditors,  yet  the 
cultivated  classes  throughout  Europe  have  reason  to  be 
thankful  that 

"he  went  on  refining, 


And  thought  of  convincing,  while  they  thought  of  dining." 

Our  very  sign-boards  (said  an  illustrious  friend  to  me)  give 
evidence,  that  there  has  been  a  Titian  in  the  world.  In  like 
manner,  not  only  the  debates  in  parliament,  not  only  our 
proclamations  and  state  papers,  but  the  essays  and  leading 


BIOGRAPHIA   LITERARIA  373 

paragraphs  of  our  journals  are  so  many  remembrancers  of 
Edmund  Burke.  Of  this  the  reader  may  easily  convince 
himself,  if  either  by  recollection  or  reference  he  will  com- 
pare the  opposition  newspapers  at  the  commencement  and 
during  the  five  or  six  following  years  of  the  French  revolu- 
tion, with  the  sentiments  and  grounds  of  argument  assumed 
in  the  same  class  of  journals  at  present,  and  for  some  years 
past. 

Whether  the  spirit  of  Jacobinism,  which  the  writings  of 
Burke  exorcised  from  the  higher  and  from  the  literary 
classes,  may  not  like  the  ghost  in  Hamlet,  be  heard  moving 
and  mining  in  the  underground  chambers  with  an  activity 
the  more  dangerous  because  less  noisy,  may  admit  of  a 
question.  I  have  given  my  opinions  on  this  point,  and  the 
grounds  of  them,  in  my  letters  to  Judge  Fletcher,  occasioned 
by  his  charge  to  the  Wexford  grand  jury,  and  published  in 
the  Courier.  Be  this  as  it  may,  the  evil  spirit  of  jealousy, 
and  with  it  the  Cerberean  whelps  of  feud  and  slander,  no 
longer  walk  their  rounds  in  cultivated  society. 

Far  different  were  the  days  to  which  these  anecdotes  have 
carried  me  back.  The  dark  guesses  of  some  zealous  Quid- 
nunc, met  with  so  congenial  a  soil  in  the  grave  alarm  of  a 
titled  Dogberry  of  our  neighborhood,  that  a  spy  was  actu- 
ally sent  down  from  the  government  pour  surveillance  of 
myself  and  friend.  There  must  have  been  not  only  abun- 
dance, but  variety  of  these  «  honorable  men  »  at  the  disposal 
of  ministers:  for  this  proved  a  very  honest  fellow.  After 
three  weeks'  truly  Indian  perseverance  in  tracking  us  (for 
we  were  commonly  together),  during  all  which  time  seldom 
were  we  out  of  doors  but  he  contrived  to  be  within  hearing 
(and  all  the  while  utterly  unsuspected ;  how,  indeed,  could 
such  a  suspicion  enter  our  fancies?)  he  not  only  rejected  Sir 
Dogberry's  request  that  he  would  try  yet  a  little  longer, 
but  declared  to  him  his  belief,  that  both  my  friend  and  my- 
self were  as  good  subjects,  for  aught  he  could  discover  to 
the  contrary,  as  any  in  His  Majesty's  dominions.  He  had 
repeatedly  hid  himself,  he  said,  for  hours  together,  behind 
a  bank  at  the  sea-side  (our  favorite  seat),  and  overheard  our 
conversation.  At  first  he  fancied,  that  we  were  aware  of 
our  danger ;   for  he  often  heard  me  talk  of  one  Spy  Nosy, 


374  COLERIDGE 

which  he  was  inclined  to  interpret  of  himself,  and  of  a  re- 
markable feature  belonging  to  him;  but  he  was  speedily 
convinced  that  it  was  the  name  of  a  man  who  had  made  a 
book  and  lived  long  ago.  Our  talk  ran  most  upon  books, 
and  we  were  perpetually  desiring  each  other  to  look  at  this, 
and  to  listen  to  that ;  but  he  could  not  catch  a  word  about 
politics.  Once  he  had  joined  me  on  the  road ;  (this  occurred 
as  I  was  returning  home  alone  from  my  friend's  house, 
which  was  about  three  miles  from  my  own  cottage),  and 
passing  himself  off  as  a  traveller,  he  had  entered  into  con- 
versation with  me,  and  talked  of  purpose  in  a  democrat  way 
in  order  to  draw  me  out.  The  result,  it  appears,  not  only 
convinced  him  that  I  was  no  friend  of  Jacobinism;  but  (he 
added)  I  had  «  plainly  made  it  out  to  be  such  a  silly  as  well 
as  wicked  thing,  that  he  felt  ashamed,  though  he  had  only 
put  it  on.»  I  distinctly  remembered  the  occurrence,  and 
had  mentioned  it  immediately  on  my  return,  repeating 
what  the  traveller  with  his  Bardolph  nose  had  said,  with  my 
own  answer ;  and  so  little  did  I  suspect  the  true  object  of 
my  ((tempter  ere  accuser,))  that  I  expressed  with  no  small 
pleasure  my  hope  and  belief,  that  the  conversation  had  been 
of  some  service  to  the  poor  misled  malcontent.  This  inci- 
dent therefore  prevented  all  doubt  as  to  the  truth  of  the  re- 
port which,  through  a  friendly  medium,  came  to  me  from 
the  master  of  the  village  inn,  who  had  been  ordered  to  en- 
tertain the  government  gentleman  in  his  best  manner,  but 
above  all  to  be  silent  concerning  such  a  person  being  in  his 
house.  At  length,  he  received  Sir  Dogberry's  commands 
to  accompany  his  guest  at  the  final  interview;  and  after  the 
absolving  suffrage  of  the  gentleman  honored  with  the  con- 
fidence of  ministers,  answered  as  follows,  to  the  following 
queries : — D.  Well,  landlord !  what  do  you  know  of  the  per- 
son in  question?     L.   I  see  him  often  pass  by  with  maister 

,  my  landlord  (i.e.  the  owner  of  the  house),  and 

sometimes  with  the  new-comers  at  Holford;  but  I  never 
said  a  word  to  him,  or  he  to  me.  D.  But  do  you  not  know 
that  he  has  distributed  papers  and  handbills  of  a  seditious 
nature  among  the  common  people?  L.  No,  your  honor.  I 
never  heard  of  such  a  thing.  D.  Have  you  not  seen  this 
Mr.  Coleridge,  or  heard  of  his  haranguing  and  talking  to 


BIOGRAPHIA   LITERARIA  375 

knots  and  clusters  of  the  inhabitants? — What  are  you  grin- 
ning at,  sir?  L.  Beg  your  honor's  pardon!  but  I  was  only 
thinking  how  they'd  have  stared  at  him.  If  what  I  have 
heard  be  true,  your  honor !  they  would  not  have  understood 
a  word  he  said.  When  our  vicar  was  here,  Dr.  L.  the  mas- 
ter of  the  great  school  and  Canon  of  Windsor,  there  was  a 

great  dinner  party  at  maister 's;   and  one  of  the 

farmers  that  was  there  told  us  that  he  and  the  Doctor  talked 
real  Hebrew  Greek  at  each  other  for  an  hour  together  after 
dinner.  D.  Answer  the  question,  sir!  Does  he  ever  har- 
angue the  people?  L.  I  hope  your  honor  an't  angry  with 
me.  I  can  say  no  more  than  I  know.  I  never  saw  him 
talking  with  any  one,  but  my  landlord,  and  our  curate,  and 
the  strange  gentleman.  D.  Has  he  not  been  seen  wander- 
ing on  the  hills  towards  the  Channel,  and  along  the  shore, 
with  books  and  papers  in  his  hand,  taking  charts  and  maps 
of  the  country?  L.  Why,  as  to  that,  your  honor!  I  own,  I 
have  heard ;    I  am  sure,  I  would  not  wish  to  say  ill  of  any 

body ;  but  it  is  certain  that  I  have  heard D.   Speak  out, 

man!  don't  be  afraid;  you  are  doing  your  duty  to  your  King 
and  government.  What  have  you  heard?  L.  Why,  folks 
do  say,  your  honor !  as  how  he  is  a  Poet,  and  that  he  is  going 
to  put  Quantock  and  all  about  here  in  print ;  and  as  they  be 
so  much  together,  I  suppose  that  the  strange  gentleman  has 
some  consarn  in  the  business.— So  ended  this  formidable 
inquisition,  the  latter  part  of  which  alone  requires  explana- 
tion, and  at  the  same  time  entitles  the  anecdote  to  a  place 
in  my  literary  life.  I  had  considered  it  as  a  defect  in  the 
admirable  poem  of  «The  Task,»  that  the  subject,  which 
gives  the  title  to  the  work,  was  not,  and  indeed  could  not 
be,  carried  on  beyond  the  three  or  four  first  pages,  and 
that  throughout  the  poem  the  connections  are  frequently 
awkward,  and  the  transitions  abrupt  and  arbitrary.  I 
sought  for  a  subject  that  should  give  equal  room  and  free- 
dom for  description,  incident,  and  impassioned  reflections 
on  men,  nature,  and  society,  yet  supply  in  itself  a  natural 
connection  to  the  parts,  and  unity  to  the  whole.  Such  a 
subject  I  conceived  myself  to  have  found  in  a  stream,  traced 
from  its  source  in  the  hills  among  the  yellow-red  moss  and 
conical  glass-shaped  tufts  of  bent,  to  the  first  break  or  fall, 


376  COLERIDGE 

where  its  drops  became  audible,  and  it  begins  to  form  a 
channel ;  thence  to  the  peat  and  turf  barn,  itself  built  of  the 
same  dark  squares  as  it  sheltered ;  to  the  sheep-fold ;  to  the 
first  cultivated  plot  of  ground ;  to  the  lonely  cottage  and  its 
bleak  garden  won  from  the  heath ;  to  the  hamlet,  the  vil- 
lages, the  market-town,  the  manufactories,  and  the  sea-port. 
My  walks,  therefore,  were  almost  daily  on  the  top  of  Quan- 
tock,  and  among  its  sloping  coombs.  With  my  pencil  and 
memorandum-book  in  my  hand,  I  was  making  studies,  as 
the  artists  call  them,  and  often  moulding  my  thoughts  into 
verse,  with  the  objects  and  imagery  immediately  before  my 
senses.  Many  circumstances,  evil  and  good,  intervened  to 
prevent  the  completion  of  the  poem,  which  was  to  have  been 
entitled  «The  Brook. »  Had  I  finished  the  work,  it  was  my 
purpose  in  the  heat  of  the  moment  to  have  dedicated  it  to 
our  then  committee  of  public  safety  as  containing  the  charts 
and  maps  with  which  I  was  to  have  supplied  the  French 
government  in  aid  of  their  plans  of  invasion.  And  these 
too  for  a  tract  of  coast  that  from  Clevedon  to  Minehead 
scarcely  permits  the  approach  of  a  fishing-boat ! 

All  my  experience,  from  my  first  entrance  into  life  to  the 
present  hour,  is  in  favor  of  the  warning  maxim — that  the 
man,  who  opposes  in  toto  the  political  or  religious  zealots  of 
his  age,  is  safer  from  their  obloquy  than  he  who  differs  from 
them  in  one  or  two  points,  or  perhaps  only  in  degree.  By 
that  transfer  of  the  feelings  of  private  life  into  the  discus- 
sion of  public  questions,  which  is  the  queen  bee  in  the  hive 
of  party  fanaticism,  the  partizan  has  more  sympathy  with  an 
intemperate  opposite  than  with  a  moderate  friend.  We  now 
enjoy  an  intermission,  and  long  may  it  continue !  In  addi- 
tion to  far  higher  and  more  important  merits,  our  present 
Bible  societies,  and  other  numerous  associations  for  national 
or  charitable  objects,  may  serve,  perhaps,  to  carry  off  the 
superfluous  activity  and  fervor  of  stirring  minds  in  innocent 
hyperboles  and  the  bustle  of  management.  But  the  poison- 
tree  is  not  dead,  though  the  sap  may  for  a  season  have  sub- 
sided to  its  roots.  At  least  let  us  not  be  lulled  into  such  a 
notion  of  our  entire  security,  as  not  to  keep  watch  and 
ward,  even  on  our  best  feelings.  I  have  seen  gross  intoler- 
ance shown  in  support  of  toleration;   sectarian   antipathy 


BIOGRAPHIA  LITERARIA  377 

most  obtrusively  displayed  in  the  promotion  of  an  undistin- 
guishing  comprehension  of  sects;  and  acts  of  cruelty  (I  had 
almost  said  of  treachery),  committed  in  furtherance  of  an 
object  vitally  important  to  the  cause  of  humanity;  and  all 
this  by  men  too  of  naturally  kind  dispositions  and  exemplary 
conduct. 

The  magic  rod  of  fanaticism  is  preserved  in  the  very 
adyta  of  human  nature;  and  needs  only  the  re-exciting 
warmth  of  a  master  hand  to  bud  forth  afresh  and  produce 
the  old  fruits.  The  horror  of  the  peasant's  war  in  Germany, 
and  the  direful  effects  of  the  Anabaptists'  tenets  (which 
differed  only  from  those  of  Jacobinism  by  the  substitution 
of  theological  for  philosophical  jargon)  struck  all  Europe 
for  a  time  with  affright.  Yet  little  more  than  a  century 
was  sufficient  to  obliterate  all  effective  memory  of  these 
events.  The  same  principles,  with  similar  though  less 
dreadful  consequences,  were  again  at  work  from  the  impris- 
onment of  the  first  Charles  to  the  restoration  of  his  son. 
The  fanatic  maxim  of  extirpating  fanaticism  by  persecution 
produced  a  civil  war.  The  war  ended  in  the  victory  of  the 
insurgents ;  but  the  temper  survived,  and  Milton  had  abun- 
dant grounds  for  asserting,  that  « Presbyter  was  but  Old 
Priest  writ  large ! »  One  good  result,  thank  heaven !  of 
this  zealotry  was  the  re-establishment  of  the  Church.  And 
now  it  might  have  been  hoped,  that  the  mischievous  spirit 
would  have  been  bound  for  a  season,  « and  a  seal  set  upon 
him  that  he  might  deceive  the  nation  no  more.»  But  no! 
The  ball  of  persecution  was  taken  up  with  undiminished 
vigor  by  the  persecuted.  The  same  fanatic  principle,  that 
under  the  solemn  oath  and  covenant  had  turned  cathedrals 
into  stables,  destroyed  the  rarest  trophies  of  art  and  ances- 
tral piety,  and  hunted  the  brightest  ornaments  of  learning 
and  religion  into  holes  and  corners,  now  marched  under 
episcopal  banners,  and  having  first  crowded  the  prisons  of 
England,  emptied  its  whole  vial  of  wrath  on  the  miserable 
covenanters  of  Scotland.  A  merciful  providence  at  length 
constrained  both  parties  to  join  against  a  common  enemy. 
A  wise  Government  followed;  and  the  established  Church 
became,  and  now  is,  not  only  the  brightest  example,  but 
our  best  and  only  sure  bulwark  of  toleration !     The  true  and 


378  COLERIDGE 

indispensable  bank  against  a  new  inundation  of  persecuting 
zeal — Esto  perpetua  /  * 

A  long  interval  of  quiet  succeeded ;  or  rather,  the  exhaus- 
tion had  produced  a  cold  fit  of  the  ague,  which  was  symp- 
tomatized  by  indifference  among  the  many,  and  a  tendency 
to  infidelity  or  scepticism  in  the  educated  classes.  At  length 
those  feelings  of  disgust  and  hatred,  which  for  a  brief  while 
the  multitude  had  attached  to  the  crimes  and  absurdities 
of  sectarian  and  democratic  fanaticism,  were  transferred  to 
the  oppressive  privileges  of  the  noblesse,  and  the  luxury, 
intrigues,  and  favoritism  of  the  Continental  courts.  The 
same  principles  dressed  in  the  ostentatious  garb  of  a  fash- 
ionable philosophy  once  more  rose  triumphant  and  effected 
the  French  revolution.  And  have  we  not  within  the  last 
three  or  four  years  had  reason  to  apprehend  that  the  detest- 
able maxims  and  correspondent  measures  of  the  late  French 
despotism  had  already  bedimmed  the  public  recollections  of 
democratic  phrensy;  had  drawn  off  toother  objects  the  elec- 
tric force  of  the  feelings  which  had  massed  and  upheld 
those  recollections ;  and  that  a  favorable  concurrence  of  oc- 
casions was  alone  wanting  to  awaken  the  thunder  and  pre- 
cipitate the  lightning  from  the  opposite  quarter  of  the  polit- 
ical heaven? 

In  part  from  constitutional  indolence,  which  in  the  very 
heyday  of  hope  had  kept  my  enthusiasm  in  check,  but  still 
more  from  the  habits  and  influences  of  a  classical  education 
and  academic  pursuits,  scarcely  had  a  year  elapsed  from  the 
commencement  of  my  literary  and  political  adventures  be- 
fore my  mind  sank  into  a  state  of  thorough  disgust  and  de- 
spondency, both  with  regard  to  the  disputes  and  the  parties 
disputant.     With  more  than  poetic  feeling  I  exclaimed : 

"The  sensual  and  the  dark  rebel  in  vain. 
Slaves  by  their  own  compulsion  !     In  mad  game 
They  break  their  manacles,  to  wear  the  name 
Of  freedom,  graven  on  an  heavier  chain. 
O  liberty  !  with  profitless  endeavor 
Have  I  pursued  thee  many  a  weary  hour ; 
But  thou  nor  swell* st  the  victor's  pomp,  nor  ever 
Didst  breathe  thy  soul  in  forms  of  human  power ! 
Alike  from  all,  howe'er  they  praise  thee 
(Nor  prayer  nor  boastful  name  delays  thee) 


BIOGRAPHIA   LITERARIA  379 

From  superstition's  harpy  minions 
And  factious  blasphemy's  obscener  slaves, 
Thou  speedest  on  thy  cherub  pinions. 
The  guide  of  homeless  winds  and  playmate  of  the  waves !  " 

France,  a  Palinodia. 

I  retired  to  a  cottage  in  Somersetshire  at  the  foot  of 
Quantock,  and  devoted  my  thoughts  and  studies  to  the 
foundations  of  religion  and  morals.  Here  I  found  myself 
all  afloat.  Doubts  rushed  in;  broke  upon  me  «from  the 
fountains  of  the  great  deep,»  and  fell  «from  the  windows  of 
heaven.»  The  fontal  truths  of  natural  religion  and  the 
books  of  Revelation  alike  contributed  to  the  flood ;  and  it 
was  long  ere  my  ark  touched  on  an  Ararat  and  rested.  The 
idea  of  the  Supreme  Being  appeared  to  me  to  be  as  neces- 
sarily implied  in  all  particular  modes  of  being,  as  the  idea 
of  infinite  space  in  all  the  geometrical  figures  by  which 
space  is  limited.  I  was  pleased  with  the  Cartesian  opinion, 
that  the  idea  of  God  is  distinguished  from  all  other  ideas 
by  involving  its  reality;  but  I  was  not  wholly  satisfied.  I 
began  then  to  ask  myself,  what  proof  I  had  of  the  outward 
existence  of  anything?  Of  this  sheet  of  paper  for  instance, 
as  a  thing  in  itself,  separate  from  the  phenomenon  or  image 
in  my  perception.  I  saw,  that  in  the  nature  of  things  such 
proof  is  impossible ;  and  that  of  all  modes  of  being,  that  are 
not  objects  of  the  senses,  the  existence  is  assumed  by  a  log- 
ical necessity  arising  from  the  constitution  of  the  mind  itself, 
by  the  absence  of  all  motive  to  doubt  it,  not  from  any  abso- 
lute contradiction  in  the  supposition  of  the  contrary.  Still 
the  existence  of  a  Being,  the  ground  of  all  existence,  was 
not  yet  the  existence  of  a  moral  creator  and  governor.  « In 
the  position,  that  all  reality  is  either  contained  in  the  nec- 
essary being  as  an  attribute,  or  exists  through  him  as  its 
ground,  it  remains  undecided  whether  the  properties  of  in- 
telligence and  will  are  to  be  referred  to  the  Supreme  Being 
in  the  former  or  only  in  the  latter  sense ;  as  inherent  at- 
tributes, or  only  as  consequences  that  have  existence  in 
other  things  through  him.  Thus  organization  and  motion 
are  regarded  as  from  God,  not  in  God.  Were  the  latter  the 
truth,  then  notwithstanding  all  the  pre-eminence  which 
must  be  assigned  to  the  Eternal  First  from  the  sufficiency, 


380  COLERIDGE 

unity,  and  independence  of  his  being,  as  the  dread  ground 
of  the  universe,  his  nature  would  yet  fall  far  short  of  that 
which  we  are  bound  to  comprehend  in  the  idea  of  God.  For 
without  any  knowledge  or  determining  resolve  of  its  own  it 
would  only  be  a  blind  necessary  ground  of  other  things  and 
other  spirits;  and  thus  would  be  distinguished  from  the 
fate  of  certain  ancient  philosophers  in  no  respect,  but  that 
of  being  more  definitely  and  intelligibly  described. » 

For  a  very  long  time  indeed  I  could  not  reconcile  person- 
ality with  infinity;  and  my  head  was  with  Spinoza,  though 
my  whole  heart  remained  with  Paul  and  John.  Yet  there 
had  dawned  upon  me,  even  before  I  had  met  with  the  «  Crit- 
ique of  the  Pure  Reason,))  a  certain  guiding  light.  If  the 
mere  intellect  could  make  no  certain  discovery  of  a  holy  and 
intelligent  first  cause,  it  might  yet  supply  a  demonstration, 
that  no  legitimate  argument  could  be  drawn  from  the  intel- 
lect against  its  truth.  And  what  is  this  more  than  St.  Paul's 
assertion,  that  by  wisdom  (more  properly  translated  by  the 
powers  of  reasoning),  no  man  ever  arrived  at  the  knowledge 
of  God?  What  more  than  the  sublimest,  and  probably  the 
oldest  book  on  earth  has  taught  us, 

Silver  and  gold  man  searcheth  out : 

Bringeth  the  ore  out  of  the  earth,  and  darkness  into  light. 

But  where  findeth  he  wisdom  ? 

Where  is  the  place  of  understanding? 

The  abyss  crieth  ;  it  is  not  in  me  ! 

Ocean  echoeth  back  ;  not  in  me  ! 

Whence  then  cometh  wisdom? 

Where  dwelleth  understanding? 

Hidden  from  the  eyes  of  the  living  : 

Kept  secret  from  the  fowls  of  heaven  ! 

Hell  and  death  answer  ; 

We  have  heard  the  rumor  thereof  from  afar ! 

God  marketh  out  the  road  to  it ; 

God  knoweth  its  abiding  place  ! 

He  beholdeth  the  ends  of  the  earth  ; 

He  surveyeth  what  is  beneath  the  heavens  ! 

And  as  He  weighed  out  the  winds,  and  measured  the  sea, 

And  appointed  laws  to  the  rain. 

And  a  path  to  the  thunder, 

A  path  to  the  flashes  of  the  lightning! 


BIOGRAPHIA   LITERARIA  381 

Then  did  He  see  it, 

And  He  counted  it ; 

He  searched  into  the  depth  thereof, 

And  with  a  line  did  He  compass  it  round ! 

But  to  man  He  said, 

The  fear  of  the  Lord  is  wisdom  for  thee  ! 

And  to  avoid  evil, 

That  is  thy  understanding. 

Job,  Chap.  28th. 

I  became  convinced  that  religion,  as  both  the  corner-stone 
and  the  key-stone  of  morality,  must  have  a  moral  origin ;  so 
far  at  least,  that  the  evidence  of  its  doctrines  could  not,  like 
the  truths  of  abstract  science,  be  wholly  independent  of  the 
will.  It  were,  therefore,  to  be  expected  that  its  fundamen- 
tal truth  would  be  such  as  might  be  denied ;  though  only 
by  the  fool,  and  even  by  the  fool  from  the  madness  of  the 
heart  alone! 

The  question,  then,  concerning  our  faith  in  the  existence 
of  a  God,  not  only  as  the  ground  of  the  universe  by  his  es- 
sence, but  as  its  maker  and  judge  by  his  wisdom  and  holy 
will,  appeared  to  stand  thus.  The  sciential  reason,  whose 
objects  are  purely  theoretical,  remains  neutral,  as  long  as 
its  name  and  semblance  are  not  usurped  by  the  opponents 
of  the  doctrine.  But  it  then  becomes  an  effective  ally  by 
exposing  the  false  show  of  demonstration,  or  by  evincing 
the  equal  demonstrability  of  the  contrary  from  premises 
equally  logical.  The  understanding  meantime  suggests, 
the  analogy  of  experience  facilitates,  the  belief.  Nature 
excites  and  recalls  it  as  by  a  perpetual  revelation.  Our 
feelings  almost  necessitate  it;  and  the  law  of  conscience 
peremptorily  commands  it.  The  arguments  that  at  all  ap- 
ply to  it,  are  in  its  favor ;  and  there  is  nothing  against  it, 
but  its  own  sublimity.  It  could  not  be  intellectually  more 
evident  without  becoming  morally  less  effective;  without 
counteracting  its  own  end  by  sacrificing  the  life  of  faith  to 
the  cold  mechanism  of  a  worthless,  because  compulsory, 
assent.  The  belief  of  a  God  and  a  future  state  (if  a  passive 
acquiescence  may  be  nattered  with  the  name  of  belief)  does 
not  indeed  always  beget  a  good  heart,  but  a  good  heart  so 
naturally  begets  the  belief,  that  the  very  few  exceptions 


382  COLERIDGE 

must  be  regarded  as  strange  anomalies  from  strange  and 
unfortunate  circumstances. 

From  these  premises  I  proceeded  to  draw  the  following 
conclusions.  First,  that  having  once  fully  admitted  the 
existence  of  an  infinite  yet  self-conscious  Creator,  we  are 
not  allowed  to  ground  the  irrationality  of  any  other  article 
of  faith  on  arguments  which  would  equally  prove  that  to  be 
irrational,  which  we  had  allowed  to  be  real.  Secondly,  that 
whatever  is  deducible  from  the  admission  of  a  self-compre- 
hending and  creative  spirit,  may  be  legitimately  used  in 
proof  of  the  possibility  of  any  further  mystery  concerning 
the  divine  nature.  Possibilitatum  mysteriorum,  (Trinitatis, 
etc.)  contra  insultus  Infidelium  et  Hcereticorum  a  contradic- 
tionibus  vindico  ;  hand  quidem  veritatem,  qua  revelatione  sola 
stabiliri  possit ;  says  Leibnitz  in  a  letter  to  his  Duke.  He 
then  adds  the  following  just  and  important  remark.  « In 
vain  will  tradition  or  texts  of  scripture  be  adduced  in  sup- 
port of  a  doctrine,  donee  clava  impossibilitatis  et  contradic- 
tions e  manibus  horum  Herculum  extorta  fuerit.  For  the 
Heretic  will  still  reply,  that  texts,  the  literal  sense  of  which 
is  not  so  much  above  as  directly  against  all  reason,  must  be 
understood  figuratively,  as  Herod  is  a  fox,  etc.» 

These  principles  I  held  philosophically,  while  in  respect 
of  revealed  religion  I  remained  a  zealous  Unitarian.  I 
considered  the  idea  of  the  Trinity  a  fair  scholastic  inference 
from  the  being  of  God  as  a  creative  intelligence ;  and  that 
it  was  therefore  entitled  to  the  rank  of  an  esoteric  doctrine 
of  natural  religion.  But  seeing  in  the  same  no  practical  or 
moral  bearing,  I  confined  it  to  the  schools  of  philosophy. 
The  admission  of  the  logos,  as  hypostasized  {i.e.  neither  a 
mere  attribute  or  a  personification)  in  no  respect  removed 
my  doubts  concerning  the  Incarnation  and  the  Redemption 
by  the  cross ;  which  I  could  neither  reconcile  in  reason  with 
the  impassiveness  of  the  Divine  Being,  nor  in  my  moral 
feelings  with  the  sacred  distinction  between  things  and 
persons,  the  vicarious  payment  of  a  debt  and  the  vicarious 
expiation  of  guilt.  A  more  thorough  revolution  in  my  phil- 
osophic principles,  and  a  deeper  insight  into  my  own  heart, 
were  yet  wanting.  Nevertheless,  I  cannot  doubt,  that  the 
difference  of  my  metaphysical  notions  from  those  of  Uni- 


BIOGRAPHIA  LITERARIA  383 

tarians  in  general  contributed  to  my  final  re-conversion  to 
the  whole  truth  in  Christ;  even  as  according  to  his  own 
confession  the  books  of  certain  Platonic  philosophers  (Jibri 
quorundam  Platonicorum)  commenced  the  rescue  of  St. 
Augustine's  faith  from  the  same  error  aggravated  by  the 
far  darker  accompaniment  of  the  Manichaean  heresy. 

While  my  mind  was  thus  perplexed,  by  a  gracious  provi- 
dence for  which  I  can  never  be  sufficiently  grateful,  the 
generous  and  munificent  patronage  of  Mr.  Josiah  and  Mr. 
Thomas  Wedgwood  enabled  me  to  finish  my  education  in 
Germany.  Instead  of  troubling  others  with  my  own  crude 
notions  and  juvenile  compositions,  I  was  thenceforward  bet- 
ter employed  in  attempting  to  store  my  own  head  with  the 
wisdom  of  others.  I  made  the  best  use  of  my  time  and 
means ;  and  there  is  therefore  no  period  of  my  life  on  which 
I  can  look  back  with  such  unmingled  satisfaction.  After 
acquiring  a  tolerable  sufficiency  in  the  German  language  at 
Ratzeburg,  which  with  my  voyage  and  journey  thither  I 
have  described  in  The  Friend,  I  proceeded  through  Hanover 
to  Gottingen. 

Here  I  regularly  attended  the  lectures  on  physiology  in 
the  morning,  and  on  natural  history  in  the  evening,  under 
Blumenbach,  a  name  as  dear  to  every  Englishman  who  has 
studied  at  that  university,  as  it  is  venerable  to  men  of  science 
throughout  Europe !  Eichhorn's  lectures  on  the  New  Testa- 
ment were  repeated  to  me  from  notes  by  a  student  from 
Ratzeburg,  a  young  man  of  sound  learning  and  indefatiga- 
ble industry,  who  is  now,  I  believe,  a  professor  of  the  orien- 
tal languages  at  Heidelberg.  But  my  chief  efforts  were 
directed  towards  a  grounded  knowledge  of  the  German  lan- 
guage and  literature.  From  Professor  Tychsen  I  received 
as  many  lessons  in  the  Gothic  of  Ulphilas  as  sufficed  to  make 
me  acquainted  with  its  grammar,  and  the  radical  words  of 
most  frequent  occurrence ;  and  with  the  occasional  assist- 
ance of  the  same  philosophical  linguist,  I  read  through  Ott- 
fried's  metrical  paraphrase  of  the  gospel,  and  the  most  im- 
portant remains  of  the  Theotiscan,  or  the  transitional  state 
of  the  Teutonic  language  from  the  Gothic  to  the  old  Ger- 
man of  the  Swabian  period.  Of  this  period  (the  polished 
dialect  of  which  is  analogous  to  that  of  our  Chaucer,  and. 


384  COLERIDGE 

which  leaves  the  philosophic  student  in  doubt  whether  the 
language  has  not  since  then  lost  more  in  sweetness  and 
flexibility,  than  it  has  gained  in  condensation  and  copious- 
ness) I  read  with  sedulous  accuracy  the  Minnesinger  (or 
singers  of  love,  the  Provencal  poets  of  the  Swabian  court) 
and  the  metrical  romances ;  and  then  labored  through  suffi- 
cient specimens  of  the  master  singers,  their  degenerate  suc- 
cessors; not  however,  without  occasional  pleasure  from  the 
rude,  yet  interesting  strains  of  Hans  Sachs,  the  cobbler  of 
Nuremberg.  Of  this  man's  genius  five  folio  volumes  with 
double  columns  are  extant  in  print,  and  nearly  an  equal 
number  in  manuscript;  yet  the  indefatigable  bard  takes  care 
to  inform  his  readers  that  he  never  made  a  shoe  the  less,  but 
had  virtuously  reared  a  large  family  by  the  labor  of  his 
hands. 

In  Pindar,  Chaucer,  Dante,  Milton,  etc.,  etc.,  we  have  in- 
stances of  the  close  connection  of  poetic  genius  with  the 
love  of  liberty  and  of  genuine  reformation.  The  moral 
sense  at  least  will  not  be  outraged,  if  I  add  to  the  list  the 
name  of  this  honest  shoemaker  (a  trade,  by  the  bye,  re- 
markable for  the  production  of  philosophers  and  poets). 
His  poem  entitled  the  Morning  Star,  was  the  very  first  pub- 
lication that  appeared  in  praise  and  support  of  Luther ;  and 
an  excellent  hymn  of  Hans  Sachs,  which  has  been  deserv- 
edly translated  into  almost  all  the  European  languages,  was 
commonly  sung  in  the  Protestant  churches  whenever  the 
heroic  reformer  visited  them. 

In  Luther's  own  German  writings,  and  eminently  in  his 
translation  of  the  Bible,  the  German  language  commenced. 
I  mean  the  language  as  it  is  alt  present  written  ;  that  which 
is  called  the  High  German,  as  contra-distinguished  from  the 
Piatt- Teutsch,  the  dialect  of  the  flat  or  northern  countries, 
and  from  the  Ober-Teutsch,  the  language  of  the  Middle  and 
Southern  Germany.  The  High  German  is  indeed  a  lingua 
communis,  not  actually  the  native  language  of  any  province, 
but  the  choice  and  fragrancy  of  all  the  dialects.  From  this 
cause  it  is  at  once  the  most  copious  and  the  most  grammat- 
ical of  all  the  European  tongues. 

Within  less  than  a  century  after  Luther's  death  the  Ger- 
man was  inundated  with  pedantic  barbarisms.     A  few  vol- 


BIOGRAPHIA   LITERARIA  385 

umes  of  this  period  I  read  through  from  motives  of  curios- 
ity ;  for  it  is  not  easy  to  imagine  any  thing  more  fantastic 
than  the  very  appearance  of  their  pages.  Almost  every 
third  word  is  a  Latin  word  with  a  Germanized  ending,  the 
Latin  portion  being  always  printed  in  Roman  letters,  while 
in  the  last  syllable  the  German  character  is  retained. 

At  length,  aboiit  the  year  1620,  Opitz  arose,  whose  genius 
more  nearly  resembled  that  of  Dryden  than  any  other  poet 
who  at  present  occurs  to  my  recollection.  In  the  opinion 
of  Lessing,  the  most  acute  of  critics,  and  of  Adelung,  the 
first  of  Lexicographers,  Opitz,  and  the  Silesian  poets,  his 
followers,  not  only  restored  the  language,  but  still  remain 
the  models  of  pure  diction.  A  stranger  has  no  vote  on  such 
a  question ;  but  after  repeated  perusal  of  the  work  my  feel- 
ings justified  the  verdict,  and  I  seemed  to  have  acquired 
from  them  a  sort  of  tact  for  what  is  genuine  in  the  style  of 
later  writers. 

Of  the  splendid  era,  which  commenced  with  Gellert, 
Klopstock,  Ramler,  Lessing,  and  their  compeers,  I  need  not 
speak.  With  the  opportunities  which  I  enjoyed,  it  would 
have  been  disgraceful  not  to  have  been  familiar  with  their 
writings ;  and  I  have  already  said  as  much  as  the  present 
biographical  sketch  requires  concerning  the  German  philos- 
ophers, whose  works,  for  the  greater  part,  I  became  ac- 
quainted with  at  a  far  later  period. 

Soon  after  my  return  from  Germany  I  was  solicited  to 
undertake  the  literary  and  political  department  in  the  Morn- 
ing Post ;  and  I  acceded  to  the  proposal  on  the  condition 
that  the  paper  should  thenceforwards  be  conducted  on  cer- 
tain fixed  and  announced  principles,  and  that  I  should  be 
neither  obliged  or  requested  to  deviate  from  them  in  favor 
of  an)7  party  or  any  event.  In  consequence,  that  Journal 
became  and  for  many  years  continued  anti-ministerial  in- 
deed, yet  with  a  very  qualified  approbation  of  the  opposition, 
and,  with  far  greater  earnestness  and  zeal  both  anti-jacobin 
and  anti-gallican.  To  this  hour  I  cannot  find  reason  to  ap- 
prove of  the  first  war  either  in  its  commencement  or  its 
conduct.  Nor  can  I  understand  with  what  reason  either  Mr. 
Perceval  (whom  I  am  singular  enough  to  regard  as  the  best 
and  wisest  minister  of  this  reign),  or  the  present  adminis- 
25 


386  COLERIDGE 

tration,  can  be  said  to  have  pursued  the  plans  of  Mr.  Pitt. 
The  love  of  their  country,  and  perseverant  hostility  to 
French  principles  and  French  ambition  are  indeed  honora- 
ble qualities  common  to  them  and  to  their  predecessor.  But 
it  appears  to  me  as  clear  as  the  evidence  of  facts  can  render 
any  question  of  history,  that  the  successes  of  the  Perceval 
and  of  the  existing  ministry  have  been  owing  to  their  having 
pursued  measures  the  direct  contrary  to  Mr.  Pitt's.  Such 
for  instance  are  the  concentration  of  the  national  force  to 
one  object ;  the  abandonment  of  the  subsidizing  policy,  so 
far  at  least  as  neither  to  goad  or  bribe  the  continental  courts 
into  war,  till  the  convictions  of  their  subjects  had  rendered 
it  a  war  of  their  own  seeking;  and  above  all,  in  their  manly 
and  generous  reliance  on  the  good  sense  of  the  English 
people,  and  on  that  loyalty  which  is  linked  to  the  very  heart 
of  the  nation  by  the  system  of  credit  and  the  interdepend- 
ence of  property. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  I  am  persuaded  that  the  Morning  Post 
proved  a  far  more  useful  ally  to  the  Government  in  its  most 
important  objects,  in  consequence  of  its  being  generally 
considered  as  moderately  anti-ministerial,  than  if  it  had  been 
the  avowed  eulogist  of  Mr.  Pitt.  (The  few,  whose  curiosity 
or  fancy  should  lead  them  to  turn  over  the  journals  of  that 
date,  may  find  a  small  proof  of  this  in  the  frequent  charges 
made  by  the  Morning  Chronicle,  that  such  and  such  essays 
or  leading  paragraphs  had  been  sent  from  the  Treasury). 
The  rapid  and  unusual  increase  in  the  sale  of  the  Morning 
Post  is  a  sufficient  pledge  that  genuine  impartiality,  with  a 
respectable  portion  of  literary  talent,  will  secure  the  success 
of  a  newspaper  without  the  aid  of  party  or  ministerial 
patronage.  But  by  impartiality  I  mean  an  honest  and  en- 
lightened adherence  to  a  code  of  intelligible  principles  pre- 
viously announced,  and  faithfully  referred  to  in  support  of 
every  judgment  on  men  and  events;  not  indiscriminate 
abuse,  not  the  indulgence  of  an  editor's  own  malignant  pas- 
sions, and  still  less,  if  that  be  possible,  a  determination  to 
make  money  by  flattering  the  envy  and  cupidity,  the  vin- 
dictive restlessness  and  self-conceit  of  the  half-witted  vul- 
gar; a  determination  almost  fiendish,  but  which,  I  have 
been  informed,  has  been  boastfully  avowed  by  one  man,  the 


BIOGRAPHIA  LITERARIA  387 

most  notorious  of  these  mob-sycophants!  From  the  com- 
mencement of  the  Addington  administration  to  the  present 
day,  whatever  I  have  written  in  the  Mortiing  Post,  or  (after 
that  paper  was  transferred  to  other  proprietors)  in  the 
Courier,  has  been  in  defence  or  furtherance  of  the  measures 
of  Government. 

"Things  of  this  nature  scarce  survive  the  night 
That  gives  them  birth  ;  they  perish  in  the  sight, 
Cast  by  so  far  from  after-life,  that  there 
Can  scarcely  aught  be  said,  but  that  they  were  !" 

Cartwright's  Prologue  to  the  Royal  Slave. 

Yet  in  these  labors  I  employed,  and  in  the  belief  of  par- 
tial friends  wasted,  the  prime  and  manhood  of  my  intellect. 
Most  assuredly  they  added  nothing  to  my  fortune  or  my 
reputation.  The  industry  of  the  week  supplied  the  neces- 
sities of  the  week.  From  Government  or  the  friends  of 
Government  I  not  only  never  received  remuneration,  or  ever 
expected  it ;  but  I  was  never  honored  with  a  single  acknowl- 
edgment or  expression  of  satisfaction.  Yet  the  retrospect 
is  far  from  painful  or  matter  of  regret.  I  am  not  indeed 
silly  enough  to  take  as  anything  more  than  a  violent  hyper- 
bole of  party  debate,  Mr.  Fox's  assertion  that  the  late  war 
(I  trust  that  the  epithet  is  not  prematurely  applied)  was  a 
war  produced  by  the  Morning  Post ;  or  I  should  be  proud  to 
have  the  words  inscribed  on  my  tomb.  As  little  do  I  re- 
gard the  circumstance,  that  I  was  a  specified  object  of 
Buonaparte's  resentment  during  my  residence  in  Italy  in 
consequence  of  those  essays  in  the  Morning  Post  during  the 
peace  of  Amiens.  (Of  this  I  was  warned,  directly,  by  Baron 
Von  Humboldt,  the  Prussian  Plenipotentiary,  who  at  that 
time  was  the  minister  of  the  Prussian  court  at  Rome ;  and 
indirectly,  through  his  secretary,  by  Cardinal  Fesch  him- 
self.) Nor  do  I  lay  any  greater  weight  on  the  confirming 
fact,  that  an  order  for  my  arrest  was  sent  from  Paris,  from 
which  danger  I  was  rescued  by  the  kindness  of  a  noble 
Benedictine,  and  the  gracious  connivance  of  that  good  old 
man,  the  present  Pope.  For  the  late  tyrant's  vindictive 
appetite  was  omnivorous,  and  preyed  equally  on  a  Due 
d'Enghien,  and  the  writer  of  a  newspaper  paragraph.  Like 
a  true  vulture,  Napoleon  with  an  eye  not  less  telescopic, 


388  COLERIDGE 

and  with  a  taste  equally  coarse  in  his  ravin,  could  descend 
from  the  most  dazzling  heights  to  pounce  on  the  leveret  in 
the  brake,  or  even  on  the  field-mouse  amid  the  grass.  But 
I  do  derive  a  gratification  from  the  knowledge,  that  my  es- 
says contributed  to  introduce  the  practice  of  placing  the 
questions  and  events  of  the  day  in  a  moral  point  of  view ;  in 
giving  a  dignity  to  particular  measures  by  tracing  their  pol- 
icy or  impolicy  to  permanent  principles,  and  an  interest  to 
principles  by  the  application  of  them  to  individual  measures. 
In  Mr.  Burke's  writings  indeed  the  germs  of  almost  all  polit- 
ical truths  may  be  found.  But  I  dare  assume  to  myself  the 
merit  of  having  first  explicitly  defined  and  analyzed  the 
nature  of  Jacobinism;  and  that  in  distinguishing  the  Jacobin 
from  the  republican,"  the  democrat  and  the  mere  dema- 
gogue, I  both  rescued  the  word  from  remaining  a  mere  term 
of  abuse,  and  put  on  their  guard  many  honest  minds,  who 
even,  in  their  heat  of  zeal  against  Jacobinism,  admitted  or 
supported  principles  from  which  the  worst  parts  of  that 
system  may  be  legitimately  deduced.  That  these  are  not 
necessary  practical  results  of  such  principles,  we  owe  to  that 
fortunate  inconsequence  of  our  nature  which  permits  the 
heart  to  rectify  the  errors  of  the  understanding.  The  de- 
tailed examination  of  the  consular  Government  and  its 
pretended  constitution,  and  the  proof  given  by  me  that  it 
was  a  consummate  despotism  in  masquerade,  extorted  a  re- 
cantation even  from  the  Morning  Chronicle,  which  had  pre- 
viously extolled  this  constitution  as  the  perfection  of  a  wise 
and  regulated  liberty.  On  every  great  occurrence  I  en- 
deavored to  discover  in  past  history  the  event  that  most 
nearly  resembled  it.  I  procured,  wherever  it  was  possible, 
the  contemporary  historians,  memorialists,  and  pamphlet- 
eers. Then  fairly  subtracting  the  points  of  difference  from 
those  of  likeness,  as  the  balance  favored  the  former  or  the 
latter,  I  conjectured  that  the  result  would  be  the  same  or 
different.  In  the  series  of  essays,  entitled  «  A  comparison 
of  France  under  Napoleon  with  Rome  under  the  first 
Caesars,»  and  in  those  which  followed  «On  the  probable  final 
restoration  of  the  Bourbons, »  I  feel  myself  authorized  to 
affirm,  by  the  effect  produced  on  many  intelligent  men,  that 
were  the  dates  wanting,  it  might  have  been  suspected  that 


BIOGRAPHIA  LITERARIA  389 

the  essays  had  been  written  within  the  last  twelve  months. 
The  same  plan  I  pursued  at  the  commencement  of  the  Span- 
ish revolution,  and  with  the  same  success,  taking  the  war  of 
the  United  Provinces  with  Philip  II.  as  the  groundwork  of 
the  comparison.  I  have  mentioned  this  from  no  motives  of 
vanity,  nor  even  from  motives  of  self-defence,  which  would 
justify  a  certain  degree  of  egotism,  especially  if  it  be  con- 
sidered how  often  and  grossly  I  have  been  attacked  for  sen- 
timents which  I  had  exerted  my  best  powers  to  confute  and 
expose,  and  how  grievously  these  charges  acted  to  my  dis- 
advantage while  I  was  in  Malta.  Or  rather  they  would  have 
done  so,  if  my  own  feelings  had  not  precluded  the  wish  of  a 
settled  establishment  in  that  island.  But  I  have  mentioned 
it  from  the  full  persuasion  that,  armed  with  the  two-fold 
knowledge  of  history  and  the  human  mind,  a  man  will 
scarcely  err  in  his  judgment  concerning  the  sum  total  of  any 
future  national  event,  if  he  have  been  able  to  procure  the 
original  documents  of  the  past  together  with  authentic  ac- 
counts of  the  present,  and  if  he  have  a  philosophic  tact  for 
what  is  truly  important  in  facts,  and  in  most  instances  there- 
fore for  such  facts  as  the  dignity  of  history  has  excluded 
from  the  volumes  of  our  modern  compilers,  by  the  courtesy 
of  the  age  entitled  historians. 

To  have  lived  in  vain  must  be  a  painful  thought  to  any 
man,  and  especially  so  to  him  who  has  made  literature  his 
profession.  I  should  therefore  rather  condole  than  be  angry 
with  the  mind,  which  could  attribute  to  no  worthier  feelings 
than  those  of  vanity  or  self-love  the  satisfaction  which  I 
acknowledge  to  have  enjoyed  from  the  republication  of  my 
political  essays  (either  whole  or  as  extracts)  not  only  in 
many  of  our  own  provincial  papers,  but  in  the  federal  jour- 
nals throughout  America.  I  regarded  it  as  some  proof  of 
my  not  having  labored  altogether  in  vain,  that  from  the 
articles  written  by  me  shortly  before  and  at  the  commence- 
ment of  the  late  unhappy  war  with  America,  not  only  the 
sentiments  were  adopted,  but  in  some  instance  the  very 
language,  in  several  of  the  Massachusetts  state  papers. 

But  no  one  of  these  motives,  nor  all  conjointly,  would 
have  impelled  me  to  a  statement  so  uncomfortable  to  my 
own  feelings,  had  not  my  character  been  repeatedly  attacked 


39©  COLERIDGE 

by  an  unjustifiable  intrusion  on  private  life,  as  of  a  man  in- 
corrigibly idle,  and  who,  entrusted  not  only  with  ample  tal- 
ents, but  favored  with  unusual  opportunities  of  improving 
them,  had  nevertheless  suffered  them  to  rust  away  without 
any  efficient  exertion  either  for  his  own  good  or  that  of  his 
fellow-creatures.  Even  if  the  compositions  which  I  have 
made  public,  and  that  too  in  a  form  the  most  certain  of  an 
extensive  circulation,  though  the  least  flattering  to  an  au- 
thor's self-love,  had  been  published  in  books,  they  would 
have  filled  a  respectable  number  of  volumes,  though  every 
passage  of  merely  temporary  interest  were  omitted.  My 
prose  writings  have  been  charged  with  a  disproportionate 
demand  on  the  attention ;  with  an  excess  of  refinement  in 
the  mode  of  arriving  at  truths ;  with  beating  the  ground  for 
that  which  might  have  been  run  down  by  the  eye ;  with  the 
length  and  laborious  construction  of  my  periods ;  in  short 
with  obscurity  and  the  love  of  paradox.  But  my  severest 
critics  have  not  pretended  to  have  found  in  my  compositions 
triviality,  or  traces  of  a  mind  that  shrunk  from  the  toil  of 
thinking.  No  one  has  charged  me  with  tricking  out  in  other 
words  the  thoughts  of  others,  or  with  hashing  up  anew  the 
crambe  jam  decies  coctam  of  English  literature  or  philosophy. 
Seldom  have  I  written  that  in  a  day,  the  acquisition  or  in- 
vestigation of  which  had  not  cost  me  the  previous  labor  of  a 
month. 

But  are  books  the  only  channel  through  which  the  stream 
of  intellectual  usefulness  can  flow?  Is  the  diffusion  of  truth 
to  be  estimated  by  publications ;  or  publications  by  the  truth 
which  they  diffuse  or  at  least  contain?  I  speak  it  in  the  ex- 
cusable warmth  of  a  mind  stung  by  an  accusation  which  has 
not  only  been  advanced  in  reviews  of  the  widest  circulation, 
not  only  registered  in  the  bulkiest  works  of  periodical  liter- 
ature, but  by  frequency  of  repetition  has  become  an  admitted 
fact  in  private  literary  circles,  and  thoughtlessly  repeated  by 
too  many  who  call  themselves  my  friends,  and  whose  own 
recollections  ought  to  have  suggested  a  contrary  testimony. 
Would  that  the  criterion  of  a  scholar's  utility  were  the  num- 
ber and  moral  value  of  the  truths  which  he  has  been  the 
means  of  throwing  into  the  general  circulation ;  or  the  num- 
ber and  value  of  the  minds  whom,  by  his  conversation  or 


BIOGRAPHIA  LITERARIA  391 

letters,  he  has  excited  into  activity,  and  supplied  with  the 
germs  of  their  after-growth!  A  distinguished  rank  might 
not  indeed,  even  then,  be  awarded  to  my  exertions,  but  I 
should  dare  look  forward  with  confidence  to  an  honorable 
acquittal.  I  should  dare  appeal  to  the  numerous  and  re- 
spectable audiences,  which  at  different  times  and  in  differ- 
ent places  honored  my  lecture-rooms  with  their  attendance, 
whether  the  points  of  view  from  which  the  subjects  treated 
of  were  surveyed,  whether  the  grounds  of  my  reasoning 
were  such  as  they  had  heard  or  read  elsewhere,  or  have 
since  found  in  previous  publications.  I  can  conscientiously 
declare,  that  the  complete  success  of  the  Remorse  on  the 
first  night  of  its  representation  did  not  give  me  as  great  or 
as  heartfelt  a  pleasure,  as  the  observation  that  the  pit  and 
boxes  were  crowded  with  faces  familiar  to  me,  though  of 
individuals  whose  names  I  did  not  know,  and  of  whom  I 
knew  nothing  but  that  they  had  attended  one  or  other  of 
my  courses  of  lectures.  It  is  an  excellent,  though  perhaps 
somewhat  vulgar  proverb,  that  there  are  cases  where  a  man 
may  be  as  well  «in  for  a  pound  as  for  a  penny.))  To  those 
who  from  ignorance  of  the  serious  injury  I  have  received 
from  this  rumor  of  having  dreamt  away  my  life  to  no  pur- 
pose, injuries  which  I  unwillingly  remember  at  all,  much 
less  am  disposed  to  record  in  a  sketch  of  my  literary  life :  or  to 
those,  who  from  their  own  feelings,  or  the  gratification  they 
derive  from  thinking  contemptuously  of  others,  would  like 
Job's  comforters  attribute  these  complaints,  extorted  from 
me  by  the  sense  of  wrong,  to  self-conceit  or  presumptuous 
vanity,  I  have  already  furnished  such  ample  materials,  that 
I  shall  gain  nothing  by  withholding  the  remainder.  I  will 
not  therefore  hesitate  to  ask  the  consciences  of  those  who 
from  their  long  acquaintance  with  me  and  with  the  circum- 
stances are  best  qualified  to  decide  or  be  my  judges,  whether 
the  restitution  of  the  sunm  cuique  would  increase  or  detract 
from  my  literary  reputation.  In  this  exculpation  I  hope  to 
be  understood  as  speaking  of  myself  comparatively,  and  in 
proportion  to  the  claims  which  others  are  entitled  to  make 
on  my  time  or  my  talents.  By  what  I  have  effected  am  I 
to  be  judged  by  my  fellow-men ;  what  I  could  have  done  is 
a  question  for  my  own  conscience.     On  my  own  account  I 


392  COLERIDGE 

may  perhaps  have  had  sufficient  reason  to  lament  my  defi- 
ciency in  self-control,  and  the  neglect  of  concentring  my 
powers  to  the  realization  of  some  permanent  work.  But  to 
verse  rather  than  to  prose,  if  to  either,  belongs  the  voice  of 
mourning  for 

Keen  pangs  of  love  awakening  as  a  babe 
Turbulent,  with  an  outcry  in  the  heart, 
And  fears  self-will 'd  that  shunn'd  the  eye  of  hope. 
And  hope  that  scarce  would  know  itself  from  fear ; 
Sense  of  past  youth,  and  manhood  come  in  vain, 
And  genius  given  and  knowledge  won  in  vain, 
And  all  which  I  had  cull'd  in  wood-walks  wild 
And  all  which  patient  toil  had  rear'd,  and  all 
Commune  with  thee  had  open'd  out — but  flowers 
Strew 'd  on  my  corpse,  and  borne  upon  my  bier 
In  the  same  coffin,  for  the  self-same  grave ! 

S.  T.  C.  (To  William  Wordsworth.) 

These  will  exist,  for  the  future,  I  trust  only  in  the  poetic 
strains,  which  the  feelings  at  the  time  called  forth.  In  those 
only,  gentle  reader, 

"  Affectus  animi  varios,  bellumque  seguacis 
Perlegis  invidce;  curasque  revolvis  inanes; 
Quas  humilis  tenero  stylus  olim  effudit  in  cevo. 
Perlegis  el  lacrymas,  el  quod pharetratus  acutd 
J  lie  puer  puero  fecit  mini  cuspide  vulnus. 
Omnia  paulatim  consumit  longior  oetas 

Vivendoque  simul  morimur,  rapimurque  manendo. 

ipse  mihi  col  hit  us  enim  non  ille  videbor; 

Frons  alia  est,  moresque  alii,  nova  mentis  imago. 

Vox  aliudque  sonat.  Jamque  observatio  vitce 
Mult  a  dedit; — lugere  nihil,  ferre  omnia;  jamque 
Paulatim  lacrymas  rerum  experientia  tersit." 

AN    AFFECTIONATE    EXHORTATION   TO    THOSE   WHO   IN    EARLY   LIFE 
FEEL   THEMSELVES    DISPOSED   TO    BECOME   AUTHORS. 

It  was  a  favorite  remark  of  the  late  Mr.  Whitbread's,  that 
no  man  does  anything  from  a  single  motive.  The  separate 
motives,  or  rather  moods  of  mind,  which  produced  the  pre- 
ceding reflections  and  anecdotes  have  been  laid  open  to  the 
reader  in  each  separate  instance.  But  an  interest  in  the 
welfare  of  those  who  at  the  present  time  may  be  in  circum- 
stances not  dissimilar  to  my  own  at  my  first  entrance  into 


BIOGRAPHIA   LITERARIA  393 

life,  has  been  the  constant  accompaniment,  and  (as  it  were) 
the  under-song  of  all  my  feelings.  Whitehead,  exerting  the 
prerogative  of  his  laureateship,  addressed  to  youthful  poets 
a  poetic  charge,  which  is  perhaps  the  best,  and  certainly  the 
most  interesting  of  his  works.  With  no  other  privilege  than 
that  of  sympathy  and  sincere  good  wishes,  I  would  address 
an  affectionate  exhortation  to  the  youthful  literati,  grounded 
on  my  own  experience.  It  will  be  but  short;  for  the  be- 
ginning, middle,  and  end  converge  to  one  charge:  never 
pursue  literature  as  a  trade.  With  the  exception  of  one  ex- 
traordinary man,  I  have  never  known  an  individual,  least  of 
all  an  individual  of  genius,  healthy  or  happy  without  a  pro- 
fession, i.e.,  some  regular  employment,  which  does  not  de- 
pend on  the  will  of  the  moment,  and  which  can  be  carried 
on  so  far  mechanically  that  an  average  quantum  only  of 
health,  spirits,  and  intellectual  exertion  are  requisite  to  its 
faithful  discharge.  Three  hours  of  leisure,  unannoyed  by 
any  alien  anxiety,  and  looked  forward  to  with  delight  as  a 
change  and  recreation,  will  suffice  to  realize  in  literature  a 
larger  product  of  what  is  truly  genial,  than  weeks  of  com- 
pulsion. Money  and  immediate  reputation  form  only  an 
arbitrary  and  accidental  end  of  literary  labor.  The  hope  of 
increasing  them  by  any  given  exertion  will  often  prove  a 
stimulant  to  industry ;  but  the  necessity  of  acquiring  them 
will  in  all  works  of  genius  convert  the  stimulant  into  a  nar- 
cotic. Motives  by  excess  reverse  their  very  nature,  and, 
instead  of  exciting,  stun  and  stupify  the  mind.  For  it  is 
one  contradistinction  of  genius  from  talent,  that  its  predom- 
inant end  is  always  comprised  in  the  means ;  and  this  is  one 
of  the  many  points  which  establish  an  analogy  between 
genius  and  virtue.  Now  though  talents  may  exist  without 
genius,  yet  as  genius  cannot  exist,  certainly  not  manifest 
itself,  without  talents,  I  would  advise  every  scholar  who 
feels  the  genial  power  working  within  him,  so  far  to  make 
a  division  between  the  two,  as  that  he  should  devote  his 
talents  to  the  acquirement  of  competence  in  some  known 
trade  or  profession,  and  his  genius  to  objects  of  his  tranquil 
and  unbiassed  choice ;  while  the  consciousness  of  being  actu- 
ated in  both  alike  by  the  sincere  desire  to  perform  his  duty, 
will  alike  ennoble  both.     «My  dear  young  friend  »  (I  would 


394  COLERIDGE 

say)  « suppose  yourself  established  in  any  honorable  occu- 
pation. From  the  manufactory  or  counting-house,  from  the 
law  court,  or  from  having  visited  your  last  patient,  you 
return  at  evening, 

"Dear  tranquil  time,  when  the  sweet  sense  of  home 
Is  sweetest " 

to  your  family,  prepared  for  its  social  enjoyments,  with  the 
very  countenances  of  your  wife  and  children  brightened, 
and  their  voice  of  welcome  made  doubly  welcome,  by  the 
knowledge  that,  as  far  as  they  are  concerned,  you  have  sat- 
isfied the  demands  of  the  day  by  the  labor  of  the  day.  Then, 
when  you  retire  into  your  study,  in  the  books  on  your 
shelves  you  revisit  so  many  venerable  friends  with  whom 
you  can  converse.  Your  own  spirit  scarcely  less  free  from 
personal  anxieties  than  the  great  minds  that  in  those  books 
are  still  living  for  you !  Even  your  writing-desk  with  its 
blank  paper  and  all  its  other  implements  will  appear  as  a 
chain  of  flowers,  capable  of  linking  your  feelings  as  well  as 
thoughts  to  events  and  characters  past  or  to  come ;  not  a 
chain  of  iron  which  binds  you  down  to  think  of  the  future 
and  the  remote  by  recalling  the  claims  and  feelings  of  the 
peremptory  present.  But  why  should  I  say  retire?  The 
habits  of  active  life  and  daily  intercourse  with  the  stir  of 
the  world  will  tend  to  give  you  such  self-command,  that  the 
presence  of  your  family  will  be  no  interruption.  Nay,  the 
social  silence,  or  undisturbing  voices  of  a  wife  or  sister  will 
be  like  a  restorative  atmosphere,  or  soft  music  which  moulds 
a  dream  without  becoming  its  object.  If  facts  are  required 
to  prove  the  possibility  of  combining  weighty  performances 
in  literature  with  full  and  independent  employment,  the 
works  of  Cicero  and  Xenophon  among  the  ancients ;  of  Sir 
Thomas  More,  Bacon,  Baxter,  or  to  refer  at  once  to  later 
and  contemporary  instances,  Darwin  and  Roscoe,  are  at 
once  decisive  of  the  question. 

But  all  men  may  not  dare  promise  themselves  a  sufficiency 
of  self-control  for  the  imitation  of  those  examples ;  though 
strict  scrutiny  should  always  be  made,  whether  indolence, 
restlessness,  or  a  vanity  impatient  for  immediate  gratifica- 
tion, have  not  tampered  with  the  judgment  and  assumed  the 


BIOGRAPHIA   LITERARIA  395 

vizard  of  humility  for  the  purposes  of  self-delusion.  Still 
the  church  presents  to  every  man  of  learning  and  genius  a 
profession,  in  which  he  may  cherish  a  rational  hope  of  being 
able  to  unite  the  widest  schemes  of  literary  utility  with  the 
strictest  performance  of  professional  duties.  Among  the 
numerous  blessings  of  Christianity,  the  introduction  of  an 
established  church  makes  an  especial  claim  on  the  gratitude 
of  scholars  and  philosophers;  in  England  at  least,  where 
the  principles  of  Protestantism  have  conspired  with  the  free- 
dom of  the  government  to  double  all  its  salutary  powers  by 
the  removal  of  its  abuses. 

That  not  only  the  maxims,  but  the  grounds  of  a  pure 
morality,  the  mere  fragments  of  which 

"the  lofty  grave  tragedians  taught 


In  chorus  or  iambic,  teachers  best 

Of  moral  prudence,  with  delight  received 

In  brief  sententious  precepts  ;  " 

Paradise  Regained. 

and  that  the  sublime  truths  of  the  divine  unity  and  attri- 
butes, which  a  Plato  found  most  hard  to  learn,  and  deemed  it 
still  more  difficult  to  reveal ;  that  these  should  have  become 
the  almost  hereditary  property  of  childhood  and  poverty,  of 
the  hovel  and  the  workshop;  that  even  to  the  unlettered 
they  sound  as  commonplace,  is  a  phenomenon  which  must 
withhold  all  but  minds  of  the  most  vulgar  cast  from  under- 
valuing the  services  even  of  the  pulpit  and  the  reading-desk. 
Yet  those  who  confine  the  efficiency  of  an  established  church 
to  its  public  offices  can  hardly  be  placed  in  a  much  higher 
rank  of  intellect.  That  to  every  parish  throughout  the 
kingdom  there  is  transplanted  a  germ  of  civilization ;  that 
in  the  remotest  villages  there  is  a  nucleus,  round  which  the 
capabilities  of  the  place  may  crystallize  and  brighten;  a 
model  sufficiently  superior  to  excite,  yet  sufficiently  near  to 
encourage  and  facilitate,  imitation;  this,  the  unobtrusive, 
continuous  agency  of  a  Protestant  church  establishment, 
this  it  is  which  the  patriot  and  the  philanthropist,  who 
would  fain  unite  the  love  of  peace  with  the  faith  in  the 
progressive  amelioration  of  mankind,  cannot  estimate  at  too 
high  a  price.  « It  cannot  be  valued  with  the  gold  of  Ophir, 
with  the  precious  onyx,  or  the  sapphire.     No  mention  shall 


396  COLERIDGE 

be  made  of  coral  or  of  pearls ;  for  the  price  of  wisdom  Is 
above  rubies. »  The  clergyman  is  with  his  parishioners  and 
among  them ;  he  is  neither  in  the  cloistered  cell,  or  in  the 
wilderness,  but  a  neighbor  and  a  family  man,  whose  educa- 
tion and  rank  admit  him  to  the  mansion  of  the  rich  land- 
holder, while  his  duties  make  him  the  frequent  visitor  of  the 
farm-house  and  the  cottage.  He  is,  or  he  may  become, 
connected  with  the  families  of  his  parish  or  its  vicinity  by 
marriage.  And  among  the  instances  of  the  blindness,  or  at 
best  the  short-sightedness  which  it  is  the  nature  of  cupidity 
to  inflict,  I  know  few  more  striking  than  the  clamors  of  the 
farmers  against  church  property.  Whatever  was  not  paid 
to  the  clergyman  would  inevitably  at  the  next  lease  be  paid 
to  the  landholder;  while,  as  the  case  at  present  stands,  the 
revenues  of  the  church  are  in  some  sort  the  reversionary 
property  of  every  family  that  may  have  a  member  educated 
for  the  church,  or  a  daughter  that  may  marry  a  clergyman. 
Instead  of  being  foreclosed  and  immovable,  it  is  in  fact  the 
only  species  of  landed  property  that  is  essentially  moving 
and  circulative.  That  there  exist  no  inconveniences,  who 
will  pretend  to  assert?  But  I  have  yet  to  expect  the  proof, 
that  the  inconveniences  are  greater  in  this  than  in  any  other 
species :  or  that  either  the  farmers  or  the  clergy  would  be 
benefited  by  forcing  the  latter  to  become  either  Trullibers, 
or  salaried  placemen.  Nay,  I  do  not  hesitate  to  declare  my 
firm  persuasion,  that  whatever  reason  of  discontent  the 
farmers  may  assign,  the  true  cause  is  this :  that  they  may 
cheat  the  parson,  but  cannot  cheat  the  steward;  and  that 
they  are  disappointed  if  they  should  have  been  able  to  with- 
hold only  two  pounds  less  than  the  legal  claim,  having  ex- 
pected to  withhold  five.  At  all  events,  considered  relatively 
to  the  encouragement  of  learning  and  genius,  the  establish- 
ment presents  a  patronage  at  once  so  effective  and  unbur- 
densome,  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  afford  the  like  or 
equal  in  any  but  a  Christian  and  Protestant  country.  There 
is  scarce  a  department  of  human  knowledge  without  some 
bearing  on  the  various  critical,  historical,  philosophical,  and 
moral  truths,  in  which  the  scholar  must  be  interested  as  a 
clergyman ;  no  one  pursuit  worthy  of  a  man  of  genius,  which 
may  not  be  followed  without  incongruity.     To  give  the  his- 


BIOGRAPHIA   LITERARIA  397 

tory  of  the  Bible  as  a  book,  would  be  little  less  than  to  re- 
late the  origin  or  first  excitement  of  all  the  literature  and 
science  that  we  now  possess.  The  very  decorum  which  the 
profession  imposes  is  favorable  to  the  best  purposes  of  gen- 
ius, and  tends  to  counteract  its  most  frequent  defects.  Fi- 
nally, that  man  must  be  deficient  in  sensibility,  who  would 
not  find  an  incentive  to  emulation  in  the  great  and  burning 
lights  which,  in  a  long  series,  have  illustrated  the  Church 
of  England ;  who  would  not  hear  from  within  an  echo  to  the 
voice  from  their  sacred  shrines : 

"  Et pater  jEneas  et  avunculus  excitat  Hector.1' 

But  whatever  be  the  profession  or  trade  chosen,  the  ad- 
vantages are  many  and  important  compared  with  the  state 
of  a  mere  literary  man,  who  in  any  degree  depends  on  the 
sale  of  his  works  for  the  necessaries  and  comforts  of  life. 
In  the  former  a  man  lives  in  sympathy  with  the  world  in 
which  he  lives.  At  least  he  acquires  a  better  and  quicker 
tact  for  the  knowledge  of  that  with  which  men  in  general 
can  sympathize.  He  learns  to  manage  his  genius  more  pru- 
dently and  efficaciously.  His  powers  and  acquirements  gain 
him  likewise  more  real  admiration;  for  they  surpass  the 
legitimate  expectations  of  others.  He  is  something  besides 
an  author,  and  is  not  therefore  considered  merely  as  an 
author.  The  hearts  of  men  are  open  to  him,  as  to  one  of 
their  own  class ;  and  whether  he  exerts  himself  or  not  in 
the  conversational  circles  of  his  acquaintance,  his  silence  is 
not  attributed  to  pride,  nor  his  communicativeness  to  van- 
ity. To  these  advantages  I  will  venture  to  add  a  superior 
chance  of  happiness  in  domestic  life,  were  it  only  that  it  is 
as  natural  for  the  man  to  be  out  of  the  circle  of  his  house- 
hold during  the  day,  as  it  is  meritorious  for  the  woman  to 
remain  for  the  most  part  within  it.  But  this  subject  involves 
points  of  consideration  so  numerous  and  so  delicate,  and 
would  not  only  permit,  but  require  such  ample  documents 
from  the  biography  of  literary  men,  that  I  now  merely  al- 
lude to  it  in  transitu.  When  the  same  circumstance  has 
occurred  at  very  different  times  to  very  different  persons, 
all  of  whom  have  some  one  thing  in  common,  there  is  rea- 
son to  suppose  that  such  circumstance  is  not  merely  attrib- 


39«  COLERIDGE 

utable  to  the  persons  concerned,  but  is  in  some  measure 
occasioned  by  the  one  point  in  common  to  them  all.  Instead 
of  the  vehement  and  almost  slanderous  dehortation  from 
marriage,  which  the  Misogyne,  Boccaccio,  addresses  to  liter- 
ary men,  I  would  substitute  the  simple  advice :  be  not  merely 
a  man  of  letters !  Let  literature  be  an  honorable  augmenta- 
tion to  your  arms,  but  not  constitute  the  coat,  or  fill  the 
escutcheon ! 

To  objections  from  conscience  I  can  of  course  answer  in 
no  other  way,  than  by  requesting  the  youthful  objector  (as 
I  have  already  done  on  a  former  occasion)  to  ascertain  with 
strict  self-examination,  whether  other  influences  may  not  be 
at  work;  whether  spirits,  «not  of  health,))  and  with  whispers 
«not  from  heaven,))  may  not  be  walking  in  the  twilight  of 
his  consciousness.  Let  him  catalogue  his  scruples,  and  re- 
duce them  to  a  distinct  intelligible  form ;  let  him  be  certain 
that  he  has  read  with  a  docile  mind  and  favorable  disposi- 
tions the  best  and  most  fundamental  works  on  the  subject; 
that  he  has  had  both  mind  and  heart  opened  to  the  great 
and  illustrious  qualities  of  the  many  renowned  characters 
who  had  doubted  like  himself,  and  whose  researches  had 
ended  in  the  clear  conviction  that  their  doubts  had  been 
groundless,  or  at  least  in  no  proportion  to  the  counter- 
weight. Happy  will  it  be  for  such  a  man,  if  among  his 
contemporaries,  elder  than  himself,  he  should  meet  with 
one  who,  with  similar  powers  and  feelings  as  acute  as  his 
own,  had  entertained  the  same  scruples;  had  acted  upon 
them ;  and  who,  by  after-research  (when  the  step  was,  alas ! 
irretrievable,  but  for  that  very  reason,  his  research  undeni- 
able disinterested)  had  discovered  himself  to  have  quarrelled 
with  received  opinions  only  to  embrace  errors ;  to  have  left 
the  direction  tracked  out  for  him  on  the  high  road  of  honor- 
able exertion,  only  to  deviate  into  a  labyrinth  where,  when 
he  had  wandered  till  his  head  was  giddy,  his  best  good  for- 
tune was  finally  to  have  found  his  way  out  again,  too  late 
for  prudence,  though  not  too  late  for  conscience  or  for  truth ! 
Time  spent  in  such  delay  is  time  won ;  for  manhood  in  the 
meantime  is  advancing,  and  with  it  increase  of  knowledge, 
strength  of  judgment,  and,  above  all,  temperance  of  feelings. 
And  even  if  these  should  effect  no  change,  yet  the  delay  will 


BIOGRAPHIA  LITERARIA  399 

at  least  prevent  the  final  approval  of  the  decision  from  being 
alloyed  by  the  inward  censure  of  the  rashness  and  vanity  by 
which  it  had  been  precipitated.  It  would  be  a  sort  of  irre- 
ligion,  and  scarcely  less  than  a  libel  on  human  nature,  to 
believe  that  there  is  any  established  and  reputable  profes- 
sion or  employment  in  which  a  man  may  not  continue  to  act 
with  honesty  and  honor ;  and  doubtless  there  is  likewise  none 
which  may  not  at  times  present  temptations  to  the  contrary. 
But  wofully  will  that  man  find  himself  mistaken  who  im- 
agines that  the  profession  of  literature,  or,  to  speak  more 
plainly,  the  trade  of  authorship,  besets  its  members  with 
fewer  or  with  less  insidious  temptations  than  the  Church, 
the  law,  or  the  different  branches  of  commerce.  But  I  have 
treated  sufficiently  on  this  unpleasant  subject  in  an  early 
chapter  of  this  volume.  I  will  conclude  the  present  there- 
fore with  a  short  extract  from  Herder,  whose  name  I  might 
have  added  to  the  illustrious  list  of  those  who  have  com- 
bined the  successful  pursuit  of  the  Muses  not  only  with  the 
faithful  discharge,  but  with  the  highest  honors  and  honor- 
able emoluments  of  an  established  profession.  The  transla- 
tion the  reader  will  find  in  a  note  below :  *  «  Am  sorgfaltig- 
sten,  meiden  sie  die  Autorschaft.  Zu  friih  oder  unmassig 
gebraucht,  macht  sie  den  Kopf  wtiste  und  das  Herz  leer; 
wenn  sie  auch  sonst  keine  uble  Folgen  gabe.  Ein  Mensch, 
der  nur  lieset  um  zu  driicken,  lieset  wahrscheinlich  libel; 
und  wer  jeden  Gedanken,  der  ihm  aufstosst,  durch  Feder 
und  Presse  versendet,  hat  sie  in  kurzer  Zeit  alle  versandt, 
und  wird  bald  ein  blosser  Diener  der  Druckerey,  ein  Buch- 
stabensetzer  werden.w 

♦Translation. — "  With  the  greatest  possible  solicitude  avoid  author- 
ship. Too  early  or  immoderately  employed,  it  makes  the  head  waste 
and  the  heart  empty ;  even  were  there  no  other  worse  consequences. 
A  person  who  reads  only  to  print,  in  all  probability  reads  amiss;  and 
he,  who  sends  away  through  the  pen  and  the  press  every  thought,  the 
moment  it  occurs  to  him,  will  in  a  short  time  have  sent  all  away,  and 
will  become  a  mere  journeyman  of  the  printing-office,  a  compositor." 

To  which  I  may  add  from  myself,  that  what  medical  physiologists 
affirm  of  certain  secretions,  applies  equally  to  our  thoughts ;  they  too 
must  be  taken  up  again  into  the  circulation,  and  be  again  and  again 
re-secreted  in  order  to  insure  a  healthful  vigor,  both  to  the  mind  and 
to  its  intellectual  offspring. 


4oo  COLERIDGE 


Striking  points  of  difference  between  the  Poets  of  the 
present  age  and  those  of  the  15th  and  16th  centu- 
RIES— Wish  expressed  for  the  union  of  the  charac- 
teristic  MERITS  OF   BOTH. 

Christendom,  from  its  first  settlement  on  feudal  rights,  has 
been  so  far  one  great  body,  however  imperfectly  organized, 
that  a  similar  spirit  will  be  found  in  each  period  to  have 
been  acting  in  all  its  members.  The  study  of  Shakespeare's 
Poems  (I  do  not  include  his  dramatic  works,  eminently  as 
they  too  deserve  that  title)  led  me  to  a  more  careful  exam- 
ination of  the  contemporary  poets  both  in  this  and  in  other 
countries.  But  my  attention  was  especially  fixed  on  those 
of  Italy,  from  the  birth  to  the  death  of  Shakespeare;  that 
being  the  country  in  which  the  fine  arts  had  been  most  sed- 
ulously, and  hitherto  most  successfully,  cultivated.  Ab- 
stracted from  the  degrees  and  peculiarities  of  individual 
genius,  the  properties  common  to  the  good  writers  of  each 
period  seem  to  establish  one  striking  point  of  difference  be- 
tween the  poetry  of  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries, 
and  that  of  the  present  age.  The  remark  may  perhaps  be 
extended  to  the  sister  art  of  painting.  At  least  the  latter 
will  serve  to  illustrate  the  former.  In  the  present  age  the 
poet  (I  would  wish  to  be  understood  as  speaking  generally, 
and  without  allusion  to  individual  names)  seems  to  propose 
to  himself  as  his  main  object,  and  as  that  which  is  the  most 
characteristic  of  his  art,  new  and  striking  images ;  with  inci- 
dents that  interest  the  affections  or  excite  the  curiosity. 
Both  his  characters  and  his  descriptions  he  renders,  as  much 
as  possible,  specific  and  individual,  even  to  a  degree  of  por- 
traiture. In  his  diction  and  metre,  on  the  other  hand,  he 
is  comparatively  careless.  The  measure  is  either  constructed 
on  no  previous  system,  and  acknowledges  no  justifying  prin- 
ciple but  that  of  the  writer's  convenience;  or  else  some 
mechanical  movement  is  adopted,  of  which  one  couplet  or 
stanza  is  so  far  an  adequate  specimen,  as  that  the  occasional 
differences  appear  evidently  to  arise  from  accident,  or  the 
qualities  of  the  language  itself,  not  from  meditation  and  an 
intelligent  purpose.     And  the  language  from  Pope's  transit 


BIOGRAPHIA  LITERARIA  401 

tion  of  Homer,  to  Darwin's  «  Temple  of  Nature,»  may,  not- 
withstanding- some  illustrious  exceptions,  be  too  faithfully 
characterized  as  claiming  to  be  poetical  for  no  better  reason 
than  that  it  would  be  intolerable  in  conversation  or  in  prose. 
Though,  alas !  even  our  prose  writings,  nay,  even  the  style 
of  our  more  set  discourses,  strive  to  be  in  the  fashion,  and 
trick  themselves  out  in  the  soiled  and  over-worn  finery  of 
the  meretricious  muse.  It  is  true,  that  of  late  a  great  im- 
provement in  this  respect  is  observable  in  our  most  popular 
writers.  But  it  is  equally  true,  that  this  recurrence  to  plain 
sense  and  genuine  mother  English  is  far  from  being  gen- 
eral; and  that  the  composition  of  our  novels,  magazines, 
public  harangues,  etc.,  is  commonly  as  trivial  in  thought, 
and  yet  enigmatic  in  expression,  as  if  Echo  and  Sphinx  had 
laid  their  heads  together  to  construct  it.  Nay,  even  of  those 
who  have  most  rescued  themselves  from  this  contagion,  I 
should  plead  inwardly  guilty  to  the  charge  of  duplicit)T  or 
cowardice  if  I  withheld  my  conviction,  that  few  have  guarded 
the  purity  of  their  native  tongue  with  that  jealous  care, 
which  the  sublime  Dante,  in  his  tract,  <nDe  la  nobile  volgare 
eloquenza^  declares  to  be  the  first  duty  of  a  poet.  For  lan- 
guage is  the  armory  of  the  human  mind ;  and  at  once  con- 
tains the  trophies  of  its  past,  and  the  weapons  of  its  future 
conquests. 

Something  analogous  to  the  materials  and  structure  of 
modern  poetry  I  seem  to  have  noticed  (but  here  I  beg  to  be 
understood  as  speaking  with  the  utmost  diffidence)  in  our 
common  landscape  painters.  Their  foregrounds  and  inter- 
mediate distances  are  comparatively  unattractive :  while  the 
main  interest  of  the  landscape  is  thrown  into  the  back- 
ground, where  mountains  and  torrents  and  castles  forbid 
the  eye  to  proceed,  and  nothing  tempts  it  to  trace  its  way 
back  again.  But  in  the  works  of  the  great  Italian  and 
Flemish  masters,  the  front  and  middle  objects  of  the  land- 
scape are  the  most  obvious  and  determinate,  the  interest 
gradually  dies  away  in  the  background,  and  the  charm  and 
peculiar  worth  of  the  picture  consist,  not  so  much  in  the 
specific  objects  which  it  conveys  to  the  understanding  in  a 
visual  language  formed  by  the  substitution  of  figures  for 
words,  as  in  the  beauty  and  harmony  of  the  colors,  lines 


4oa  COLERIDGE 

and  expression,  with  which  the  objects  are  represented. 
Hence  novelty  of  subject  was  rather  avoided  than  sought 
for.  Superior  excellence  in  the  manner  of  treating  the  same 
subjects  was  the  trial  and  test  of  the  artist's  merit. 

Not  otherwise  is  it  with  the  more  polished  poets  of  the 
15th  and  1 6th  centuries,  especially  with  those  of  Italy.  The 
imagery  is  almost  always  general;  sun,  moon,  flowers, 
breezes,  murmuring  streams,  warbling  songsters,  delicious 
shades,  lovely  damsels  cruel  as  fair,  nymphs,  naiads,  and 
goddesses,  are  the  materials  which  are  common  to  all,  and 
which  each  shaped  and  arranged  according  to  his  judgment 
or  fancy,  little  solicitous  to  add  or  to  particularize.  If  we 
make  an  honorable  exception  in  favor  of  some  English  poets, 
the  thoughts  too  are  as  little  novel  as  the  images ;  and  the 
fable  of  their  narrative  poems,  for  the  most  part  drawn 
from  mythology,  or  sources  of  equal  notoriety,  derive  their 
chief  attractions  from  the  manner  of  treating  them,  from 
impassioned  flow,  or  picturesque  arrangement.  In  opposi- 
tion to  the  present  age,  and  perhaps  in  as  faulty  an  extreme, 
they  placed  the  essence  of  poetry  in  the  art.  The  excellence 
at  which  they  aimed  consisted  in  the  exquisite  polish  of 
the  diction,  combined  with  perfect  simplicity.  This,  their 
prime  object,  they  attained  by  the  avoidance  of  every  word 
which  a  gentleman  would  not  use  in  dignified  conversation, 
and  of  every  word  and  phrase  which  none  but  a  learned 
man  would  use ;  by  the  studied  position  of  words  and  phrases, 
so  that  not  only  each  part  should  be  melodious  in  itself,  but 
contribute  to  the  harmony  of  the  whole,  each  note  referring 
and  conducing  to  the  melody  of  all  the  foregoing  and  fol- 
lowing words  of  the  same  period  or  stanza ;  and,  lastly,  with 
equal  labor,  the  greater  because  unbetrayed,  by  the  varia- 
tion and  various  harmonies  of  their  metrical  movement. 
Their  measures,  however,  were  not  indebted  for  their  vari- 
ety to  the  introduction  of  new  metres,  such  as  have  been 
attempted  of  late  in  the  «  Alonzo  and  Imogen,))  and  others 
borrowed  from  the  German,  having  in  their  very  mechan- 
ism a  specific  overpowering  tune,  to  which  the  generous 
reader  humors  his  voice  and  emphasis,  with  more  indulgence 
to  the  author  than  attention  to  the  meaning  or  quantity  of 
the  words,  but  which,  to  an  ear  familiar  with  the  numerous 


BIOGRAPHIA  LITERARIA  403 

sounds  of  the  Greek  and  Roman  poets,  has  an  effect  not 
unlike  that  of  galloping  over  a  paved  road  in  a  German 
stage-wagon  without  springs.  On  the  contrary,  the  elder 
bards,  both  of  Italy  and  England,  produced  a  far  greater  as 
well  as  more  charming  variety,  by  countless  modifications 
and  subtle  balances  of  sound  in  the  common  metres  of  their 
country.  A  lasting  and  enviable  reputation  awaits  that 
man  of  genius  who  should  attempt  and  realize  a  union ;  who 
should  recall  the  high  finish,  the  appropriateness,  the  facil- 
ity, the  delicate  proportion,  and,  above  all,  the  perfusive  and 
omnipresent  grace  which  have  preserved,  as  in  a  shrine  of 
precious  amber,  the  Sparrow  of  Catullus,  the  Swallow,  the 
Grasshopper,  and  all  the  other  little  loves  of  Anacreon ;  and 
which,  with  bright  though  diminished  glories,  revisited  the 
youth  and  early  manhood  of  Christian  Europe  in  the  vales 
of  Arno,  and  the  groves  of  Isis  and  of  Cam;  and  who  with 
these  should  combine  the  keener  interest,  deeper  pathos, 
manlier  reflection,  and  the  fresher  and  more  various  imagery 
which  give  a  value  and  a  name  that  will  not  pass  away  to 
the  poets  who  have  done  honor  to  our  own  times,  and  to 
those  of  our  immediate  predecessors. 


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